Gemini Descending
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Out on Tashmore Lake, two men are sharing a cabin - and a body. What happens when John Shooter falls in love? Will passion bring the two men together, or drive them further into madness? -COMPLETE-
1. 1 Just Across the Cove

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. That's why we write this stuff, right? There's no money in it, just a little harmless entertainment. (It's not like I'm stealing someone's story...just borrowing a few characters. I'll bring them back, honest!)

Besides, Stephen King has more money than God, he sure doesn't need my pittance.

Enjoy, y'all....!

* * *

If there was one thing Nadine Cooper couldn't abide, it was some know-it-all man trying to tell her how to run her life. She'd had a belly full of that with Leroy, and here was this old fool taking it for granted that she'd be grateful for his sorry advice.   
  
"...we just don't have enough hard evidence to get him put away." the sheriff concluded. "I thought you should know, seeing as how you're about the closest neighbor he's got, now that you're just across the cove. You might want to keep your door locked and don't let your pets run loose."   
  
"Three people, you say?" She shifted from one foot to another, the bag of groceries heavy in her arms.   
  
Three that we know of. His ex-wife and her new beau, and a gent from around here, all just disappeared, all with ties to Mr. Mort Rainey."   
  
Nadine blinked. "Mort Rainey, the writer?" Now, wouldn't that be the damnedest coincidence?   
  
"That would be him." Did this old buzzard spend all his spare time watching "Andy Griffin" reruns? He had a New England whine instead of a southern drawl, but if he'd been wearing a sandwich board saying " Genuine Homegrown Small Town Sheriff", it wouldn't have been any more obvious. She tacked a smile to the corners of her mouth.   
  
"Well, sheriff, writers are an odd breed. There's probably a perfectly good explaination for what happened to those folks. I doubt that Mort Rainey is any crazier than I am." (More than likely, a whole lot less crazy than I am, but what's past is past.)   
  
"Ma'am, I'm just letting you know, you might not want to get too friendly with him. He's killed three people, it'd be a shame if you were number four."  
  
Nadine pursed her lips and cradled the bag on her hip. Her voice sharpened. "I thought you just said there wasn't any evidence?"   
  
"Well, no, but--"  
  
"If there isn't any evidence, sheriff, then you're slandering him every time you open your mouth and say he's been killing people. Any half-wit lawyer could probably get him the fillings out of your teeth for that -- and I'll bet he's got a real good lawyer." She leaned in closer to the old man and bared her teeth. "And since I happen to have a previous acquaintance with the man, I'd be perfectly happy to get on the witness stand on his behalf!"   
  
Glaring at him, she turned away and continued to her car, parked just across the street. Tashmore Lake was a pretty little town; trouble was, it was even smaller than Portico, Georgia. (Too many years in the big city, woman. You forgot, didn't you, how folks talk? They did it in Portico, they do it here, hey, people've been a'doin' it since they were huddled in caves.) She hadn't been in town more than twenty minutes today, fifteen of it in that dinky little market and five with that fool chewing her ear --- three people and that stupid sheriff had been happy to tell her she'd built her new house in the worse possible spot, right across the lake from a maniac who'd probably come over and murder her in her sleep. (Sleep? Right....)  
  
She strapped the bag in place with the seatbelt. The nerve of some people! Okay, maybe claiming to "know" Mort Rainey was stretching the point just a smidgen, but being in the same business, they knew some of the same people. "And he did write that nice review for 'Adele's Promise'," she reminded herself. Not one of her favorite books, but still....   
  
After three weeks residence in her shiny new cottage, Nadine hadn't met the occupant of the house across the way -- it was maybe a mile away if you walked through the woods, two or three miles by road, but only a hundred yards or so from his dock to hers. Now, as she drove toward home, she felt an impulse to drop in on her neighbor and make his acquaintance. 


	2. 2 The Pumpkin Patch

Borrowed. Not for profit. Etc.

Having fun yet? Let me know!

* * *

The pumpkin patch out behind the old cottage was thriving, and the man sitting on the porch steps smiled with quiet satisfaction. He had sun-streaked brown hair and crescents of dirt under his nails from recent weeding. Beside him on the porch steps rested an old hat with a rounded crown and broad brim. It did his heart good to see the land being used right; as soon as the corn had finished its yield, he'd put in the pumpkins, and he was looking forward to a fine crop of jack-o-lanterns in a few more weeks.   
  
Movement through the trees caught his eye; there was a car turning in from the road, negotiating its way down through the tree-lined trail to the house. There was something familiar about it...wasn't that the same vehicle he'd seen parked by that new house across the lake? He'd been watching the building of it all summer, between spells of writing and tending his garden. A nice little place, still self-consciously new; he'd first noticed someone was there a couple of weeks ago, but he hadn't attempted to meet them.   
  
Well now, looky here, he thought as the woman emerged from the boxy SUV. That is my kind of woman, yes indeed. Curves where a woman's supposed to have curves, and not bad looking. "Howdy," he said, rising to his feet and retrieving his hat as she approached.  
  
"Hey there! You're Mr. Rainey? We're neighbors, I thought I'd drop by say hey."  
  
A southern girl, he realized with pleasure. Her soft drawl made his smile grow a little broader. "I reckon you have the advantage of me, Missy."   
  
"I'm sorry, I'm Nadine Cooper." She extended her hand, and his calloused fingers explored her smooth palm.   
  
"Nadine Cooper, Nadine Cooper...now, why is that name familiar?"   
  
"We share the same publisher," she reminded him with a smile, "but I don't believe we've ever actually met before. You reviewed one of my books once, I think you liked it better than I did."  
  
"Of course, of course! That one about the Great War, and the influenza epidemic...I liked that one, I thought Adele was real clever about getting her revenge on the fella that sold her the lame horse. Shame about that horse." He'd rescued the book from a stack of review copies and stolen two precious nights to read through it. As soon as he'd finished, he'd sat down and fired off a praise-filled letter to their mutual publisher. Otherwise, it wouldn't've gotten done, and a book like that deserved at least a few friendly words.   
  
"And you still remember it?" She sounded pleased and surprised. Her grey eyes crinkled at the corners. This wasn't some young gal still wet behind the ears, she must be close to his own forty years, but there was a hint of shyness in her smile, in the way she'd meet his eyes for a few seconds and glance away.   
  
"I surely do. And I look forward to being neighborly with you, seeing as there's not a whole lot of folks up at this end of the lake." Trekking to New London for groceries because he wasn't welcome in Tashmore Lake hadn't exactly broadened his circle of friends. He knew what they were saying about him in town -- the sheriff himself had been out to the cabin in July and spelled it out for him -- but either she hadn't heard the comments or was wise enough to make up her own mind.   
  
"Here, let me give you my phone number, that way if one of us is running to the store or whatever, we can help each other out."   
  
She fished a slip of paper from her pocket, and pulled a pen from the bird's nest of her hair. "That's mighty kind of you, Missy," he said, admiring the little golden brown ringlets escaping from her upswept hair. Damn, even her hair had curves! He accepted the number and tucked it into the pocket of his blue work shirt.   
  
"It's been nice meeting you," she said. "I've got groceries thawing in the car, I'd better go put them up." She strolled over to the dusty Subaru, and, holding the driver's door open, looked back at him. "Love the hat!" With a last smile, she departed, and the man stood watching her go with a disquieting mixture of admiration and sorrow. She was very attractive to him, but how long would that warm smile remain on her face once Tashmore Lake's finest got through enlightening her?   
  
As her vehicle pulled out onto the main road, he took out the strip of paper -- it was a grocery receipt totalling $23.98 -- studying her neat printing, and memorized the number. When he went in to wash his hands, he carefully tacked it to the wall beside the phone, and hoped it would stay there. 


	3. 3 Making Progress

Borrowed characters, non-profit, etc.

Hope the changes in POV aren't stressing anybody...this whole epic is going to do that **a lot**. I'm going into everybody's head for a while: Mort, Shooter, Nadine, third-person impartial -- whatever it seems to call for. I may play with telling the same scene more than once, with different POV's. The chapters are short because I figure it's easier to stick with one POV per chapter/scene.

It is definitely going to get darker -- though not as dark as the movie, I don't think -- but not for a while yet. I lean more toward building tension and suspense than freaking people out. Mostly.

Feel free to offer an opinion, but if you think it stinks, I want to hear **why**.

* * *

Mort woke on the couch at twilight, blinking in the gloom and wondering how long he'd slept. Had he made any progress at all on the new book today? He was having trouble capturing the mood he wanted; his hero wasn't suffering enough, and he still wasn't happy with chapter four. He sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands, .   
  
When had he laid down for a nap? Lunchtime? Mort shook his head impatiently. Nothing new there, he'd always tended to be a night-owl, especially when he had a book going. He reached for his wire-rimmed glasses, folded neatly on the coffee table beside an empty Doritos bag. Settling them in place, he rose from the couch and stretched.  
  
Going into the kitchen, the writer fixed a hasty supper of shredded wheat and brown sugar, crunching away with guilty pleasure. His orthodonist would probably have a fit, but he'd floss within an inch of his life -- later. Now, to get back upstairs and -- what was that? There was a slip of paper -- a cash register receipt with that day's date -- posted beside the phone with a name "NADINE" in bold block letters on the blank side, and a seven-digit phone number. A local prefix, by the look of it.   
  
"Nadine?" he repeated to himself, puzzled. "Who the hell is Nadine, and how did I get her number?"   
  
He already knew the answer to the second question, really; it was the answer to all the nagging questions about how anything happened: John Shooter. Nothing drastic, not lately, but knowing he was still out there made Mort edgy. "Okay, rephrase that: who the hell is Nadine, and how did **you** get her number?"   
  
There was no answer. Sometimes there was, sometimes there wasn't. "Whatever," he muttered, and put the strip of paper back where he'd found it. Climbing the stairs to the loft, thoughts of Nadine, whoever she was, slipped away, and he sat down at his desk to call up his latest efforts.   
  
It wasn't the worst stuff he'd ever written, but he knew it wasn't good. When it was right, it flowed a certain way. It balanced gracefully on the page. There was a rhythm to it. This wandered all over the place, and he couldn't seem to focus on it well enough to fix it.   
  
Mort lounged back in his chair, regarding the screen of his laptop with dissatisfaction. His long-fingered hands toyed with the Slinky he kept on his desk for such pauses, and he mumbled some of the worrisome passages aloud, trying different phrases to see if anything sounded better than what he'd already written. "A leisurely walk? Strolled toward the center of town? Ambled? Meandered? Crap, maybe I should just start the scene with him in town....?"   
  
Raking his hand through his flyaway hair, the writer reached into his desk drawer, extracting a thin pack of cigarettes and a blue disposable lighter. "Yeah, but if he's in town, I need to establish Main Street another way...." He fired up the smoke and inhaled hungrily. "The tree-lined avenue...."   
  
Pausing to puff at the cigarette, something caught his eye outside the secret window. Across the cove, a light twinkled through the trees where the new cottage had been built during the summer.   
  
It annoyed him that of the whole lake, somebody had chosen to build right there, exactly where it would distract him the most. While the construction had been going on, he'd wandered over to look at the site a couple times; it was a simple one-bedroom cabin with a loft, similar to, but not identical with his own. He hadn't given the matter a lot of thought until the new people had moved in, their lights distracting him, catching his attention as a helpless moth is drawn to brightness.   
  
Hmm...he scribbled down the phrase. There was no telling when it might come in handy.   
  
. 


	4. 4 Morning Interlude

(Insert standard disclaimer BS here)

Am having all kinds of fun thinking of where this story is going. And a nice long weekend ahead to work on it, goody!

Happy 4th, on the off-chance I don't get back before then....

* * *

Mist was rising off the lake. In a few hours, the warmth of indian summer sunlight would burn it off, but at this moment, the pearly haze softened the spiky boughs of the pines and lent a dreamy character to the landscape. A rowboat emerged from the fog, its dark green hull sluicing through the water. The woman navagating it rowed steadily, the paddles making rhythmic splashes as she worked them. She guided the little boat toward the dock, which grew closer and closer.  
  
As she reached the dock and tossed a loop of rope over a piling to secure her craft, the door to the cabin just up the rise opened, and a tall man wearing blue jeans, glasses and an expression of inquiry stepped outside. He moved quickly toward her, buttoning up a plaid flannel shirt, as she hopped nimbly from the boat to the dock.   
  
"Good morning, Mr. Rainey," she greeted him cheerfully. "Glad I didn't wake you. I was going to leave this at your door."   
  
"This" was a package wrapped in aluminum foil. "What is it?" the occupant of the cabin asked, eyeing her with some concern.  
  
"Banana nut bread. I got a wild hair this morning and whipped up a couple loaves, thought you might like some." She smiled at him, a not unattractive woman in a blue dress with pearly buttons riding the soft curves from her collar to her calves. Rainey fixed his gaze on the topmost button.   
  
"Uh, thanks...Nadine?" He spoke her name hesitantly as he took the package from her.   
  
"You're very welcome." She smiled up at him. He was an inch or two taller than she was, and seen together, they made an attractive couple. "I'd've made cream cheese frosting, but I didn't have any confectioner's sugar -- though heaven knows, I don't really need it!"   
  
Rainey looked away as she patted her hips with a grin. His adam's apple bobbed up and down several times and he glanced down at the bundle in his hands. "Would you, ah, would you like to come in for a minute?"   
  
"Surely! I've been looking over and wondering what this place was like ever since I bought the lot."   
  
He led the way up the path to the house, holding the screen door for her. Nadine entered at her own pace, grey eyes sweeping the living room, open to the loft above. "This is nice," she said, casually wandering over to the bookshelves to read titles. "Comfortable."   
  
"I'd offer you coffee, but I'm out. I've got some Mountain Dew--?"   
  
Nadine took down a copy of "The Marble Faun", stood leafing idly through it. "I have a confession to make," she said with a little grin. "I came prepared, just in case you're an early bird like me." Reaching into the pocket of her shirtwaist dress, she produced a handful of teabags. "A little hot water, and I'll be as right as rain."   
  
Rainey took the teabags gingerly and headed for the kitchen. She followed him, still holding the slim volume, still glancing around the space. "It's cozy," she said, leaning against the wall by the door. "Everything looks like it's been here for ages, sorta like it grew here. My place is nice, but the new hasn't worn off yet."   
  
"If you didn't want new, you could've gone somewhere else." He set the saucepan of water on the burner and amended himself hastily. "I mean, bought a place instead of built."   
  
"Oh, I wanted a new place, all right. It's all mine, everything's exactly the way I want it, I don't have to share it with anybody and there aren't any memories...." Nadine was staring into a middle distance and for a moment, Rainey stood looking at her curiously. Then she blinked at smiled at him again. "I'm sorry, blonde moment."   
  
"How did you find Tashmore Lake?"  
  
"I came up here a couple summers ago, a friend of a friend had a cabin, and I needed to get away for a while. I thought it was a sweet little place, but I didn't realize how quiet it was gonna get after the summer people go home."   
  
"If you think it's quiet now, just wait until February. There's nothing but snow and trees. March -- more snow. April -- mud. But if you can hang in that long, spring is worth the wait."   
  
"Oh, I'll hang in there," she said lightly. "I'm good at that."  
  
. 


	5. 5 Real, or ?

(Insert obligatory disclaimer here.)

I wrote up a tentative outline today, it looks like this puppy will probably run about 20-25 chapters, unless I get inspired, in which case, god only knows!

Enjoy!

* * *

Okay, the banana nut bread was fairly tasty. It made for a nice change from shredded wheat. (Floss! he reminded himself.) Now, though, his new neighbor was hanging around, reading the titles in his library, carrying her mug of tea around and sipping at it from time to time. Why the hell had he invited this Nadine-person inside? It was like inviting a vampire in, for god's sake! He'd have to find a bloodless way to get rid of her so he could get to his desk and hopefully get something productive accomplished.   
  
Mort Rainey was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. He wasn't entirely sure she was real even now -- her accent made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up -- and the thought that he might be hallucinating again....no, ridiculous. He was being paranoid, not that he didn't have reason to be paranoid, with the whole town talking about him behind his back.   
  
Then Nadine let out a squeal, and grabbed a volume from the shelf. "Oh my God, I can't believe you still have it!" Still have what? He stepped closer.   
  
"Oh my God," she repeated, laughing. "I'll sign it for you, if you want."   
  
He looked more closely at the volume in her hand. " 'Adele's Promise', by Nadine Cooper REVIEW COPY -- NOT FOR RESALE' Nadine Cooper? That Nadine Cooper? Jesus H. Christ!   
  
"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine," Mort muttered, shaking his head. This was a nightmare. (But at least, he told himself, I know I'm not hallucinating, because I'm not that much of a masochist. Even my twisted imagination wouldn't move the closest thing I've got to competition for that niche on the bestseller lists in as my next door neighbor! Would it?) His stomach knotted up, the banana bread churning. This was bad. He didn't just have a strange woman in his house, he had a strange writer in his house! Any minute now, she was going to look up at him with those squinty grey eyes and he'd hear her breathy southern voice asking him if he'd stolen her story. Or else, she was going to steal his...well, that would serve her right.  
  
While he stood there, indecisively wondering if there was anything he could do or say to get her out of here, short of mayhem, Nadine had located the pen hanging on the string with the shopping list on the fridge. She opened the book and was inscribing it, smiling that smile that was starting to get on what was left of his nerves.   
  
(Okay, go for her ego. So what if she doesn't think you're a nice guy. Hell, you're NOT a nice guy.)   
  
"Look, Ms. Cooper, I've got to be honest with you, I never even read the damn book, the only reason it's still lying around is because I'm a packrat when it comes to books."   
  
She looked puzzled. "You reviewed it. You gave it a very nice review."  
  
He waved a hand. "Bullshit, all of it. Think of it as the literary equivalent of a mercy fuck."   
  
Nadine Cooper was staring at him as if he'd started speaking in tongues. "You...never...read it?"  
  
"Nope!" He grinned back at her as obnoxiously as he could and popping his jaw. "Not a word! Just doing a favor for my editor." Slowly, Nadine Cooper closed her book, setting it on the kitchen table. She returned the pen to the string, her movements precise. Mort gave her stare back for a long moment, squashing down panic. She wasn't going to denounce him, he hadn't stolen anything from her, and if she didn't walk out that door in the next thirty seconds, he wouldn't be responsible for what happened next.   
  
"Have a pleasant day, Mr. Rainey," she said distantly, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."   
  
When the screen door banged behind her, Mort sank down into the nearest chair, sensing a close call, narrowly averted.


	6. 6 Home Sweet Home

(See previous disclaimer.)  
  
I have been told that I need to slow down and not post so much, but I'm on a roll. Am I wearing y'all out? Let me know!  
  
===============  
  
Like most seasoned writers, Nadine Cooper knew that criticism came with the job. It was a given. But Rainey's crack about the literary equivalent of a mercy fuck was a splinter in her soul. She gave the oars a vicious tug. Who the hell did that arrogant little pissant think he was, anyhow? She rowed doggedly toward home, mad enough to spit. (To think I wasted a perfectly good loaf of banana bread on that fathead! Mercy fuck? Grrr!)  
  
And yet, something didn't ring true.  
  
Yesterday, he'd been able to discuss one of the subplots of her book in a way he'd've had to read the entire book to do. That whole business with the horse had been an ongoing story, not an isolated chapter Rainey could've skimmed in five minutes. And then for him to turn around and say he hadn't read it at all -- ?   
  
Something else nagged at her. His accent...yesterday, his voice had sounded comfortingly southern. Not just the accent, his very way of putting words together. Today, he'd sounded...she wouldn't go so far as to say he sounded like a yankee, it wasn't the local "pahk the cah in the yahd" dialect, but generic east coast suburban. Nothing terribly distinctive.   
  
(Am I being neurotic? Lots of folks talk different ways, depending on what situation they're in.) The gal from Portico, Georgia had learned the hard way that a lot of big city people, like the ones who worked for publishing houses, heard her accent and assumed she was slow, ignorant and couldn't possibly have a lick of talent. She used what she called her "Steel Magnolia" act to deal with people like that, and Rainey might just have a similar trick.   
  
Nadine tied the rowboat up at her dock and glanced back across the lake at Rainey's cabin. Well, now she knew what the place really looked inside. She could recreate it in her memory, down to the dusty National Geographics in the bookcase and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the junkfood wrappers on the coffee table. Mountain Dew at seven in the morning? She shuddered.  
  
There was a steep bank at the end of the dock, with a dozen rough hewn stone steps leading up to the rise her cottage was built on. She climbed them nimbly, the sight of home soothing her.   
  
The structure blended classic lines -- a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof and two gable windows looking out over the lake -- with Victorian elegance. Painted white from eaves to crawlspace, it had been accented with lacy white gingerbread, and Nadine looked forward to planting climbing roses next spring to add to its charm.   
  
Inside, the little house was sparsely furnished. Where Rainey's cabin had acquired Things over the years, Nadine had brought very little with her from the past; when she'd left Georgia, Nadine had brought the bare minimum and shredded or auctioned off the rest.   
  
Books and papers aside, an oak farm table with drop-leaves, a vintage brass-bound trunk (family heirlooms), a heavy cast-iron skillet (likewise), and her hat collection were the only items in sight that weren't shiny new.   
  
From the gleaming hardwood floors to the beaded board paneling to the now-still ceiling fans, everything was clean and bright and hers. Nadine sighed with pleasure and plopped down to check her e-mail via laptop. There was nothing interesting; mostly spam endorsing products and services that made her skin crawl just from seeing the subject line. A routine note from her editor, advance copies of "Gemini Descending" would mail in a few weeks, how was life off the beaten track and most importantly, how was the new book coming, hint, hint?   
  
The writer rolled her eyes. She didn't have a decent title for it yet, she'd gruesomely killed off two perfectly good characters, and at the moment, even she wasn't sure who the murderer was, since she'd given everybody plenty of motivation. She fired back a quick response: "Just peachy. Water. Trees. Five chapters." She sent it with a smile; shoot, the actual total was seven and a half chapters, thank you very much, but it went against her nature to tell an editor everything.   
  
Thoughts of mentioning her new neighbor crossed her mind, but there didn't seem to be much to say: BTW, the bozo who beat me out for the Agatha Award the year before last is living just across the lake and he's a real jerk. Send him a review copy and trees will die in vain. Oh, and the locals think he might be a murdering psychopath; you might want to run off some extra copies of his backlist in case he gets arrested for killing some poor woman who just wanted to give him some banana nut bread and have a friendly conversation, for cryin' out loud!   
  
"Asshole!" she exhaled, and brought up a fresh Word doc for a new chapter. She was definitely ready to kill someone. 


	7. 7 Inner Dialogue

A/N: Loved it toward the end of "Secret Window", when Rainey was completely bugfuck and openly became John Shooter. That whole breakdown scene with the mirror and him hallucinating -- that was fantastic cinema! (Am borrowing it as a useful plot device. See previous disclaimer.)

=======================

The man stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace, compelled to focus on his reflection. His ears were tingling; it felt a lot like being very angry, but right now, Mort was more scared than anything else. Outside, it was a beautiful day, and he could see the blue-clad figure in the green boat rowing back across the lake.  
  
John Shooter glared at him from the looking glass. "That was not real swift, pilgrim, not at all. First off, you were rude to a lady. Secondly, you hurt her feelin's. Worst of all, you lied to her. Right now, if I could lay you out with a shovel upside your head, I would. Lucky for you, I cain't. Now you listen to me, and listen good, 'cause if I have to tell you again, you ain't gonna like the lesson.  
  
"I'll fix things up with Miss Cooper. She comes by here again, I don't care if you're carving stone tablets at the personal request of the Almighty, you are gonna be polite to her and act like a gentleman. Yes, you are. And right now, you are gonna sit down and read that book of hers, cover to cover. Next time you see her, you're gonna be able to carry on a civilized conversation with her about her story. It's a good one, I can tell you. Who do you think wrote that review she's so proud of?"   
  
"I don't have time for that," Mort said aloud. "I've got work to do!"  
  
"If you printed that mess of yours out, you could always use it to wipe your ass. You've got nothing but time, Mr. Rainey. You might as well improve your mind."   
  
"Why?" Mort persisted.  
  
Shooter sighed. He looked pityingly back at his host. "I thought you were smarter than that. You want her thinking you're a crazy man like everybody else in town? And what if she marches in there this afternoon and tells the sheriff you had words with her? What are you gonna do then?"   
  
"Why did she have to build her damn house right there?" grumbled Mort.   
  
"It's a free country. Her house isn't doing you any harm. I suggest you get used to it."   
  
Mort picked up the book in question and sat down on the couch with it. Shooter intimidated him enough that he wasn't about to defy him. Thoughts of what might happen if his darkness was unleashed again turned his stomach. (Okay, okay, I'll read the damn book.) He couldn't admit, even to himself, that Shooter was 100% right about the lame attempt at a novel that was talking up 360K on his laptop.   
  
The few first pages were slow going. Mort wasn't a big fan of historial fiction, and so far, this was set just before World War One, in a small southern town, and he had no idea where she was going with it. John Shooter counciled patience. Mort had the sense of someone reading over his shoulder....a part of him was reading all this for the first time; something deeper was rediscovering it. She wrote well, choosing words economically. Her characters were distinct. Images came vividly to life without puffing into long, drawn-out passages for the sake of pretty verbage. Conflict was creeping into the tale, and he turned another page, feeling tension.   
  
At page thirty-two, Mort stretched out full-length on the couch, not even aware of his action. His eyes travelled steadily across the page; holding the volume with one hand, he slid a pillow behind his head with the other, settling in for the duration.   
  
By the time he turned the last page, it was almost too dark to read without turning the lights on. Mort blinked. His head was still crowded with people and events that had long been history.   
  
"Now, you see, I told you it was a fine story," the voice intoned. "Been a long time since you've come close to writing anything that good. Hell, I don't know if you ever wrote anything that good."   
  
(Oh, come on, Mort told himself. I wouldn't go that far.) He knew that much without a voice in his head: any writer, especially one in the middle of a creative drought, is going to look enviously at what some other writer has successfully set down on a page when it's well done and looks effortless.   
  
Joints popped after his long inactivity as he got up off the couch and stretched. In the distance, he could see her house, its white paint greyed by twilight, silhouetted against the inky pines. Light came thru the row of multi-pane windows that charecterized the lake-facing side of the cottage.   
  
Mort looked across the cove and wondered what his new neighbor was doing now.   
  
=====================  
  
Next: Shooter's the guy who's always in control. Who'da thought he'd have a phobia about answering machines?  
  
.


	8. 8 The Worst Kind of Hell

(See previous disclaimer.)  
  
==============================  
  
Shooter wasn't a man to shy away from unpleasant tasks, but it took him a little while to collect himself before picking up the phone. He had to go about this in the right way. That damn fool Rainey had trampled all over Miss Nadine's feelings like cows in a cornfield, and he was the one who had to mend those fences without making matters worse.   
  
At last, he picked up the handset of the old green phone and dialed her number from memory. After four rings, there was an answer, of sorts. The sound of an old-fashioned typewriter going great guns came on the line, and he heard, "This is Nadine, I'm busy writing, leave a message after the -- " Her voice stopped, and a carriage return bell dinged loudly.  
  
Shooter hung up the phone and took a deep breath. A machine. He hated talking to those machines, foolish things. Ideally, he ought to be making his apologies in person, but going over there after dark might alarm her, depending on what she'd heard from folks in town. However, he didn't want to allow her to sleep on the unpleasantness; he had to talk to her tonight.   
  
He attempted another call. This time, after the bell, he said, "Miss Nadine, this is Morton Rainey. I wanted to talk with you about this morning -- " There was a click on the line.  
  
"This is Nadine." There was no indication from her voice as to her state of mind.   
  
"Miss Nadine, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about this morning. What I said was unkind, untrue and I am ashamed of myself."   
  
"Uh-huh."   
  
"The truth is," Shooter paused. What he was about to say was easier for him to admit than for the man he pretended to be, and besides, it was true. "I have a great deal of admiration for your work and right now, my own isn't going so well. I've spent the better part of a year trying to whip a miserable pile of droppings into shape, and I'm not having much luck."   
  
"I see." Shooter had to admire her composure.  
  
"Yesterday, after I talked to you," Shooter picked his words with care, so as not to lie the way Mort had, "I spent a long, frustrating night staring at a little screen, and I didn't have any wonderful ideas. I didn't have any ideas a'tall."   
  
"I've had that night," she replied, and warmth coursed through him. Four whole words out of her! -- and maybe, a little understanding?   
  
"So, when you came by in the morning, well...I took my problems out on you. I hope you won't hold it against me." He waited for her response, unconsciously holding his breath.   
  
"I do understand," Nadine's voice had taken on a sympathetic tone, and he relaxed a bit more. "I've had some dry spells of my own, and it is purely the worst kind of hell. It feels like your brain's turned to tapioca and any trained monkey can write better than you. You put things in and take things out and move it around, and it never gets any better."  
  
"That's about it, ma'am."   
  
"Apology accepted. I can't hardly hold a thing like that against you, 'less of course, you make a habit of it."  
  
"I'll try to reform my uncouth nature." he promised, wishing he didn't have to allow Rainey to emerge at all. But of the two of them, Rainey was what people expected. Rainey was the guy who dealt with agents and editors and legal beagles, Rainey was the one who put the words on paper, most of the time. (Except for my story, the one he sabotaged -- but I suppose if it wasn't for that, I'd still be Rainey's idle daydream. Maybe the danged fool did me a favor, in the long run....)   
  
"And I'll try not to catch you first thing in the morning," Nadine chuckled.   
  
John Shooter thought, Miss Nadine, I believe you already have.   
  
================  
  
Shooter's smoothed things out with Nadine, but will Rainey keep the peace? Stay tuned!

(And don't just sit there -- hit review!)


	9. 9 Apples and Ideas

This would have been up yesterday, but the #$%ing server was down. Did y'all miss me?

Their first meeting ended poorly. Will matters improve between Rainey and Nadine?   
(Standard disclaimer still applies.)  
  
================================  
  
For the next couple weeks, Mort kept to himself -- nothing new there! -- and determinedly continued to pound away at his dog of a novel. It didn't get any better. He was glaring at the laptop on a mid-October morning, when a yoo-hoo from the other side of his open front door brought him upright in his chair. He clattered downstairs to find Nadine Cooper standing there with a large brown paper sack. Mindful of Shooter's injunction to be polite, he opened the door for her. "Hi, there."  
  
"That little produce stand up the road had some nice apples, so I grabbed a bunch, thought you might like a few."  
  
"That's really nice of you." Mort took the bag from her and set it down on the kitchen table.   
  
"How's it going?" she asked, making a little hand gesture that suggested typing.   
  
"Words fail me."  
  
"Anything you want to talk about?"  
  
Oh sure, let me tell you all about my divorce, my mental breakdown, and the bodies buried in my backyard. That'll be a real fun chat. "Right now, I can't find my thesaurus; I'm lost without it."

"Y'know, they have software -- "  
  
"I want my thesaurus!" He caught the tone of his own words and consciously lowered his voice. "THAT thesaurus. I've had it ever since ninth grade english. I NEED that thesaurus."  
  
She nodded solemnly. "What are you looking for a word for?"  
  
Mort sighed. "At the moment, I'm trying to find a classy way of saying the guy's pissed off."  
  
"Angry," she said promptly. "Livid, furious, torqued, steamed, hot and bothered, going postal --"   
  
Steamed. Rainey thought of the confrontation scene in the restaurant kitchen, the one with his hero and Stavros, the pivotal scene that just didn't work. What if there was a big pot of water boiling on the stove, with steam coming off it? What if Stavros grabbed it and threw it at Peter? That would really mess him up, he'd have to give up searching for the diamonds, at least until he'd recovered.  
  
"You're brilliant!" he blurted, and ran for the stairs.  
  
The laptop keys rattled as they hadn't rattled for months, and they were still going at a good clip a few minutes later when Nadine ascended the stairs. Rainey barely noticed the apple that came to rest beside his monitor, was completely oblivious as the woman sat down in the old armchair with a book and an apple of her own.   
  
Forty-five minutes later, he came up for air, considering some of the plot consequences of what he was about to do. He noticed the apple for the first time and blinked. Turning his head, he saw her sitting with a book in Amy's favorite chair. (She doesn't look like Amy, she doesn't look anything like Amy, it's just that she's sitting in that chair where I'm used to seeing...HER.) Nadine glanced up from the volume and met his gaze. "Did that help?"  
  
Rainey smiled tentatively. "That helped a lot. I may be able to save this turkey yet."   
  
"Good."  
  
"I don't deserve it. I was a real jackass -- "  
  
She waved a hand. "I told you -- forget it. Past is past."  
  
"So how are things going for you?"  
  
"Shoot, half the reason I'm here is, I'm putting off sitting down to write the next scene. I finally figured out who my killer really is, and it's the last person I wanted it to be. I LIKE that character!"  
  
Rainey understood that. You started writing, and you thought you knew where the plot was going -- then all of a sudden, things veered off into the world of weirdness. "Rough," he sympathized.  
  
"Hey, Rainey, while I've got your attention, free associate on something for me. What comes into your mind when I say barn?"   
  
"Barn? Uh, red. Cows, horses, hay, hayloft, straw, scarecrows, pitchforks, overalls, tractors, farmers -- "  
  
Nadine made a little noise and snatched a pen out of her hair, looking around with a panic-stricken expression on her face. Rainey, who knew exactly what that sound and that look meant, was already reaching into the desk drawer. She caught the yellow legal pad he tossed to her in mid-air, and began to scribble frantically.   
  
Mort regarded her for a few moments, her head bent over the tablet, intent on putting words down on paper. He looked over at the screen, smiled to himself. His hero was about to start suffering for real.  
  
Shifting in his chair, Mort began to write.   
  
==============  
  
Next: Things heat up between Nadine and John Shooter!   
  
Thanks, Dawnie-7, Pen D. Fox and Raphe1 for your ongoing support. captain-jill-loon, that's exactly what I was going for: smack Mort, hmm, this "other" guy is pretty cool. (I have more fun writing Shooter, I confess. He's so dark and dangerous...Mort's just neurotic -- but at least he's writing again.)   
  
Stay tuned for the next thrilling, and I DO mean thrilling installment....


	10. 10 Cornbread

Warning, adult situations ahead. That said, any 13 year-old can plunk down $8 at Barnes & Noble for a "romance" novel with much more detailed sex scenes than mine. It's still PG-13 for now. (See previous disclaimer.)  
  
===========================  
  
Pumpkins, John Shooter was discovering, were a lot less easily disposed of than corn. He had pumpkins on the counter, pumpkins on the table, and that wasn't counting the five carved into jack o' lanterns on the back porch. He'd roasted the seeds -- had a whole bagful of them -- and he was trying to figure out what to do with the surplus. It occured to him that it would be a neighborly gesture to take a few over to Miss Nadine, who after all, had brought gifts over twice now. He pecked out her phone number without the sense of unease he'd felt last time. He was ready for that machine of hers this time.  
  
"Hello? Miss Nadine?"  
  
"Hey there, Rainey. How's every little thing?"   
  
Her voice was like melted butter and honey on hot biscuits. Was there anything better? "Doin' good, doin' good. I was hoping I could drop by and bring you a little something."  
  
"What kind of little something did you have in mind?" she asked slyly.  
  
Heat coursed through him at her teasing words, his imagination yielding vivid thoughts of what he really wanted to give her, all those fine, soft curves of hers, just meant to be made love to. "Pumpkins," he managed to say through the knot in his throat. "I've got more pumpkins than I know what to do with. You wouldn't happen to have any good recipies, would you?"   
  
"Bring 'em on over," she invited with a chuckle. "I'll think of something."   
  
Shooter loaded the trunk of Rainey's car with the orange orbs. Eight pumpkins to Miss Nadine made a fair dent in the pumpkin population. He found her driveway without much trouble --- it was the one with the brand new mailbox standing at the roadside --- and followed the not-yet-rutted tracks to her yard.   
  
Her kitchen had a lot more countertop than Rainey's -- the bountiful harvest wasn't quite so overwhelming in this setting. Shooter looked around curiously. Clean and orderly, he noted. Not fussy, not a bit. Peaceful.   
  
A row of pegs ringed the main room; most with hats of all kinds hanging on them, hats, in every shape and color imaginable: top hat, sunbonnet, fedora, pith helmet, hard hat, viking headdress and several styles of cowboy hat. There.were elegant high-church hats and baseball caps. They were made of straw and leather, of felt and fabric, embellished with lace and feathers, sequins, beads and ribbons. At least fifty of them, Shooter noted in bemusement -- but she doesn't have a hat like mine, does she?   
  
As if she'd heard his thought, Nadine plucked the hat off his head at that moment, and he looked over at her, startled. She grinned back mischeiviously and walked over to the wall where a small mirror hung beside the back door. She rested the hat on her head, adjusted it, took it off and fiddled with her hair and tried again. It was much too big. "Nope," she said, returning his hat to him. "Looks great on you, darned silly on me."   
  
"Don't you be messin' with a man's hat, Missy," he mock-growled, feeling --- what? Playful? John Shooter was generally about as playful as a mountain lion, but then again, this wasn't like having to deal with Rainey's spoilt missus. Nadine appealed to him in ways that were a mystery even to him. And she'd be good for Rainey, too -- the poor bastard needed to have his creative juices stirred up some, and this one could do it. Yes, indeedy...she could stir up all manner of things.   
  
"My apologies to your hat. I made some cornbread yesterday, would you like a piece?"  
  
"I sure would like a piece," he drawled. The color brightened her cheeks at that, but she strolled into the kitchen and came back with two wedges of cornbread. Shooter savored the treat. When had he last had cornbread? A long time, surely. This was sweet and moist and perfect, just perfect, and he told her so.   
  
"Baked in Me-maw's cast-iron skillet," she said proudly. "That's the secret to good cornbread. Bake it in cast-iron." Then Nadine began to cough and gasp beside him, and he discarded the treat, moving swifty to reach around her for the hug of life.   
  
His arms went around her waist, and he was about to bring his fists up under her diaphragm when he heard her gulp in a lungful of air, ribcage heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. Leaning back against him, she tilted her head back into the angle of his shoulder, catching her breath. Sweet-scented, silken hair tickled his cheek. The curves of her fanny were pressed up tight to his crotch -- which was, surprise, surprise, responding. He was powerfully aware of the weight of her generous breasts resting on his forearms. (Take her. Right now. Bend her over the table and -- )  
  
"I'm okay," Nadine said shakily, straightening. It took every ounce of self-mastery Shooter possessed to make himself let go of her. He closed his eyes, afraid of what she'd see if she looked into them right now. Nadine's footsteps moved unsteadily kitchenward; he heard the refrigerator door open and close. Opening his eyes, he watched her fill a glass with amber liquid from a pitcher, taking several thirsty swallows.   
  
He couldn't keep staring at her, mustn't show her how she'd affected him. Stooping, Shooter retrieved the remains of his cornbread, wincing at his own lust. (Reckon you'd best go home and take care of that. Fast.) He walked over to her, staying at arms length, holding the crumbs. "Trash?" She opened a cabinet door, and he chucked it into the bin.   
  
"Sweet tea?" she offered, hand on the pitcher.   
  
John Shooter was sorely tempted. Iced tea and more cornbread, and maybe he could talk her around to satisfying his needs. Look at her, hard little peaks were standing up on the luscious swells of her bosom. He could almost taste them, sweet as cornbread, rough beneath his tongue as he yanked her sweater up and suckled them.   
  
(No. You are not gonna do her that way.) "Miss Nadine, I got some business I need to be taking care of. I'm glad you're all right." He permitted himself to reach out and brush his fingers against her rippling tresses.   
  
Then he hurried for the door, and almost made it. He was only a few steps away when someone knocked.   
  
==========  
  
Knock, knock.  
  
Who's there?  
  
Read.  
  
Read who?  
  
Read the next chapter, silly, and find out! 


	11. 11 Trashy Romance

(See previous disclaimer.)  
  
Warning, more adult themes ahead, this time, Nadine's POV.   
  
============================  
  
Nadine moved past Rainey to the door and pulled it open. There was Purvis, the UPS guy, with a box. "Looks you got something from Halvoran Press," he greeted her. "I need you to sign for it."   
  
She opened the door wide and took the clipboard. "I've been expecting this." When she returned the clipboard, a folded ten dollar bill had found its way under the top sheet of paperwork. Strictly speaking, she wasn't on the regular UPS route, but a chat with the driver one afternoon outside the Tashmore Lake post office had taken care of that detail. Purvis now came by a couple times a week with goodies from her forays on eBay, and always got cash under the table for his trouble.   
  
Rainey was standing just inside the door, watching her. He probably hadn't missed the payoff. Shoot, he hadn't missed a darn thing, including her reaction to his embrace.   
  
"Advance copies," she said to Rainey as she came back inside. She plunked the box down on the old trunk that served as a coffee table, and was about to go to the kitchen for a knife when Rainey pulled one from his pocket.   
  
"Here you go," he said, offering it to her. "Let's see what you got."  
  
It was a big folding knife; the handle was horn or bone of some kind. Nadine carefully slit the end flaps of the box, then drew the blade along the top seam. She folded the knife closed and returned it to him. "I love this part. Shoot, it's like Christmas -- even though I know what I'm getting, I get such a kick out of seeing it for the first time."   
  
Under a layer of bubblewrap, the soft-bound volumes bore a cover design in blue and silver. "Gemini Descending", by Nadine Cooper. REVIEW COPY -- NOT FOR RESALE' (Wow, that's beautiful. They did such a good job, I just love that artwork. I've got to tell Fran how happy I am, she's been a doll to work with.)   
  
"Well, Miss Nadine? You gonna give me a crack at this one?" She'd almost forgotten Rainey's presence in her joy at the sight of her newest book.   
  
"You gonna read it?" she teased, holding out the copy she held.   
  
Rainey looked down at her, poker-faced, his intense dark eyes studying her in a way that made her weak. Nadine felt a quiver in her pelvis as he took the bound manuscript. "You have my word. Guess this gives me something else to take care of." He tipped his hat as he opened the front door. "Ma'am."   
  
"Oh, my God," she muttered as the door closed, sitting down on the couch. "God. Nadine, you have been alone way too long." Damn, what was the matter with her? A bad case of the hots, that was what!   
  
Rainey was a good-looking man, totally different from her unlamented ex. Leroy, a big, blonde bull of a man, had cherished the fond delusion that the thirty pounds he'd put on since his varsity football days were solid muscle. But Rainey? Umm...tall, dark and handsome was just the beginning....broad shoulders...those strong arms around her, pulling her close to his taut body...looking into his gorgeous brown eyes...hearing his sexy deep voice drawling "Miss Nadine"...the way he moved, like a panther. Nadine shook her head, trying to break the spell.   
  
Outside, Rainey's car was moving, and she listened as the engine noise faded away. (He was turned on, too, I could tell. Couldn't've been more obvious if he'd hit me upside the head with it -- !) Nadine gave a low moan. She hugged herself the way Rainey had, her breasts aching with desire. (Take off that hat of his, unbutton my way down that oh-so-velvety flannel shirt and see if he's as hunky as I think he is....) He'd been just the right height, too, she thought, remembering how she'd fit against him, full-length as he'd held her in his sinewy embrace.  
  
"Gonna wind up writting trashy romance novels, you don't watch out," she warned herself, trying to break the distracting train of thought. "Godawful tacky bodice rippers with half-naked folks on the cover and all kinds of purple prose." She mentally smacked herself for the sudden flash on a shirtless, hard-bodied Rainey on the cover of a paperback with her name on it. (Only if I get to do the research on that!)   
  
She chuckled and sat there for a moment, popping bubblewrap and trying to come up with a suitably absurd plot for the hypothetical romance. Two literary rivals living out in the middle of nowhere get involved with each other, and one of them is suspected of murder. Shoot, it already sounded like a bad romance novel. Yes, but in the book, which one would be the killer? And then what?  
  
Nadine finally got up and disposed of the wrappings, smiling. After all, it was only fiction.   
  
=============  
  
Well, now! We've got lots of unresolved sexual tension between Shooter and Nadine...but what about Mort? And what's "Gemini Descending about, anyway...?   
  
. 


	12. 12 Gemini Descending

(See previous disclaimers for obligatory BS)  
  
A/N: This chapter runs longer than usual, mostly on account of the chunk from "Gemini Descending". (No, I am NOT going to write the whole book!) Poor Mort is freaking out, between Nadine and Shooter. God, I love it!   
  
================================  
  
Rainey awoke on the couch again, feeling icky. He sat up slowly, his skin crawling. He definitely needed a shower. Making his way upstairs, he checked the enclosure for mice before turning on the water and removing his clothes. His briefs felt like they'd been glued to his skin. Mid-day naps were often a signal than Shooter had been out; now Rainey was forced to wonder what else his dark side was capable of. If murdering people didn't bother him, why would he draw the line at rape?   
  
Even after emerging from the shower and donning a ragged pair of shorts and his bathrobe, Rainey didn't feel clean. Shooter's violent potential disturbed him, and he had a nagging sense that there was something important he was supposed to be doing. (Getting rid of evidence? What did he do? What's going to happen now?) Standing by his desk, looking down into the living room, he caught sight of an unfamilar blue object on the coffee table. Mort hurried downstairs to investigate. It was a book: "Gemini Descending", by Nadine Cooper.   
  
Rainey felt sick. After the day they'd spent together, engaged in freeform creativity, he'd developed an appreciation for his neighbor. She was intelligent, understood the pitfalls of their mutual craft --- she was the first person in months who hadn't looked at him like he was a monster --- and if Shooter had done something to her --- ! He groaned, put down the book and hurried to the phone.   
  
Her line rang several times, and just as he was reaching the point of panic, she answered with a warm, "This is Nadine."  
  
"Nadine. Hi. It's Mort. I was wondering how you were doing?" He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.   
  
"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me, it was nothing, really."  
  
Nothing? What was nothing? Shooter, you twisted fuck, what did you do to her? "Are you sure you're okay?"   
  
"Well, if you can call being up to my elbows in pumpkin puree okay. I swear, they multiplied since you left." The laughter in her voice got through to him, and he looked around his kitchen at Shooter's harvest.  
  
"I think they're multiplying over here, too," he said ruefully. "Want some more?"  
  
"I tell you what, bring me over a couple more tomorrow and sample my experiments. You might get a couple recipies out of it."   
  
Mort swallowed. "Okay. What time?"  
  
"Say, noonish?"  
  
"Will do. See you then."  
  
"Good night." She paused. "Sweet dreams."  
  
For the first time that he could remember, Mort actually wanted Shooter to manifest. He grabbed the hat from the rack by the door, marched to the twig-framed mirror over the fireplace, settled the hat on his head, and demanded, "What did you do to her?"   
  
Nothing happened. "God damn you, Shooter, what did you do to her?"   
  
Then slow laughter bubbled up, and Shooter's words came out of his mouth. "Didn't hurt her none, if that's what you're so all-fired het-up about. Told her we'd read her new book."   
  
"You never laid a hand on her?"   
  
"I didn't say that, pilgrim," Shooter's drawl was amused. "But she didn't sound too bent out of shape, now did she? Seems to me, I heard her wish us sweet dreams." Rainey's blood ran cold. A note of rare pleasure in Shooter's voice caressed the words, and Mort wondered frantically how he could warn Nadine that she was getting friendly with a psychopath.   
  
"I wouldn't recommend that," said Shooter softly. "You just settle down and read her story, so's you'll have something to talk about tomorrow. You're in a whole lot more danger from me than she is."   
  
Mort sat down on the couch with "Gemini Descending" and turned to the first page:

"Janice Duhart was born on June 11, on her parents' second wedding anniversary. Throughout her childhood, birthday celebrations followed a predictable routine. There would be a party for Janice after school, with cake and ice cream, and later her parents would go out to dinner together, leaving Janice to play with her new toys. However, on the birthday that marked her eleventh year, Janice was given a present she didn't like, and after that, nothing was the same.  
  
"On the day after Janice's 11th birthday, her best friend Becky noticed the change. 'You're walking funny,' she said to Janice. 'What are you supposed to be?'  
  
"Janice raised her chin, and said in a clear voice, 'I am the Princess Cecelia Annabella Anastacia Monteleone of Barcelona. I am walking with the dignity befitting a princess.'  
  
"Becky thought this was a grand game. 'Can I be a princess too?' she asked eagerly.   
  
" 'No, it's hard work being a princess. I think you should be my lady-in-waiting.'  
  
" 'What am I waiting for?'  
  
" 'I'm not sure,' said Janice pensively. 'But you don't want to be a princess.' "Mort wrinkled his nose. "This sounds awfully...girly." Still, Shooter had promised that they'd read it, and it would give him something to talk about, so he continued reading about Janice and her friend, and the princess game.   
  
Then in Chapter Two, a girl who introduced herself as Cecelia Monteleone picked up a man in a bar. The guy, Joel, got the shock of a lifetime when she handcuffed him to his bed and had her way with him. ("That gal's got some imagination," Shooter remarked in Rainey's ear. "Maybe one of these days, we can get her to show us that trick with the ice cube.")  
  
Meanwhile, Janice had a peaceful life; a good job, a nerdy fiance named Sheldon, and she still kept in touch with Becky, who was raising a family. Little by little, though, things started going wrong: Sheldon broke off the engagement, saying he had proof she'd been with other men. Janice was upset, suffered from insomnia, started falling asleep at odd moments. Becky accused her of leaving bruises on Becky's daughter Miranda while baby-sitting. Twenty thousand dollars cash disappeared from Janice's employer, and she fell under suspicion.  
  
Mort swallowed hard. He knew where this was going, could almost hear it cackling in his ear. He forced himself to continue. Janice was caught with a co-worker's missing ring in her pocket, and a search of her car turned up the missing money. Her boss, who was written as sympathetic, gave her the option of therapy as a way of avoiding prosecution.   
  
"I can't read this," he said, setting the book face-down on the coffee table. "I can't. I know what's going on here, you know it as well as I do. Jesus Christ, Shooter, she's going to figure it out!"   
  
"She's a right smart woman," Shooter agreed.   
  
"What are we going to do?" Mort asked frantically.   
  
Without his conscious intent, he stood up from the couch. Shooter took the hat off and dropped it onto the coffee table, partially covering the blue volume.   
  
"Go to bed and get some rest. You've got a lunch to go to tomorrow. Sweet dreams, pilgrim."   
  
.  
  
======================  
  
A plate of puerco pibil to everybody who catches the OUaTiM reference, provided they promise not to shoot the cook. 


	13. 13 Nadine's Proposition

(See previous disclaimer.)  
  
A/N: A not-so brief but pivotal chapter. Chapters will start getting shorter again soon.

Pumpkins are loaded with vitamin A and potassium. (Useless factoid, couldn't resist.)  
  
===============================  
  
Rainey set off for Nadine's house the next day with four more pumpkins in his trunk. After a restless night, he'd given up attempts to sleep and gone back to "Gemini Descending". The next several chapters introduced Michael Hernandez, Janice's new therapist, who started probing at her problems. "Fugue states" was the term the therapist used to describe the blackouts Janice was having. He was inquiring about the trauma of her broken engagement...then Cecelia showed up for an appointment and tried to seduce him. When that didn't work, she managed to swipe a folder full of confidential patient information, and tried blackmail.   
  
Mort was caught up in the story in spite of himself. Yes, it was uncomfortably close to home, but maybe that was part of it. Janice's confusion and fear bore an unmistakable similiarity to his own feelings.   
  
Having to put the book down to shower and shave before his lunch date was harder than he'd've expected. He chose one of the more colorful shirts he'd gotten last summer during his initial burst of optimism at having the Amy situation resolved. (That faded out fast enough, especially when it didn't unblock me. Anyway, if I go over there looking like a slob, Shooter will give me hell for it later. No point in pissing him off on purpose.)   
  
Nadine greeted him warmly. Mort looked around the big open area of the cottage, taking in the hats ringing the room and wishing his own place was so uncluttered. "No books?" he asked, before he could stop himself. It was the one thing that didn't click.  
  
"Upstairs." She waved a hand toward the steps ascending to the loft above. "Figured it was easier to keep things contained that way. Are you ready for some pumpkin?"   
  
"Good grief," he said as she produced a serving bowl of something orangey with chunks of ham and vegetables. "Pumpkin stir fry?"   
  
"More or less. Also pumpkin turnovers --" another plate "-- pumpkin mousse, that's in the fridge with some whipped cream for later, and last but not least, pumpkin nut bread!" She ceremonially set a loaf on a cutting board down on the table with the other dishes.   
  
Rainey laughed. "What are you putting off writing this time?" he teased.   
  
"Oh, hush!" Her cheeks were pink. "You're not supposed to say that! Shoot, you've got me pegged, don't you? The big confrontation with my killer and the person who's been putting the pieces together is coming up, and I'm really not ready to go there."   
  
Nadine's pumpkin experiments were pretty tasty, Rainey discovered. The stir-fry was on the spicy side, the turnovers weren't a dessert item at all -- there was onion in them -- and her pumpkin nut bread was even better than her banana nut bread. As he ate, Mort returned to her earlier comment.   
  
"If your big confrontation scene is coming up, you must be nearly done with whatever it is."  
  
"The end is in sight. Which brings me to something I wanted to ask you about...."   
  
Her grey eyes met his, and Mort's gut knotted. (Confrontation. Oh god, she knows. What am I going to do?) "I think it would be fun to collaborate on something," she said, impaling a chunk of ham on her fork. "You and me. We could take turns writing chapters or get together a couple times a week to brainstorm. What do you think?"  
  
"Uh...." The proposal was so far removed from what he'd expected that for a moment, Rainey couldn't think straight. "That could be...interesting," he said cautiously. Remembering what had happened last summer, he asked, "How would we go about it? I mean, so there's no confusion about who gets credit for what."  
  
Nadine shrugged elaborately. "You call your agent, I call my agent, they do lunch. Then they call our mutual publisher and negotiate obscene amounts of money for both of us. We share a by-line and our mutual readers line up in droves to buy the hardcover."   
  
That was a perfectly sensible suggestion, and Rainey thought about it. On the one hand, there was the possibility that the more time she spent with him, the more likely she was to uncover his secret. Shooter was right; that slow, down-home accent camouflaged a quick mind. But the prospect of working with that mind was enticing. Mort knew he wasn't really back on track, although the last couple of weeks had produced better work than he'd done since before the split with Amy. Wouldn't it be great to have someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who could look over a scene with fresh eyes and improve it?   
  
"How would we decide what to write? You have some great idea kicking around that you want to try?"   
  
"How about we each write down a couple ideas, an opening scene, a character, something like that, and draw one out of a hat?"   
  
"No shortage of those," Rainey said, looking around the room.   
  
"So, is that a yes?"   
  
Rainey wrestled with his conscience and lost. The temptation was too great. "That's a yes."   
  
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Don't just sit there, hit review!


	14. 14 The Universe Conspires

(Standard disclaimer still applies.)  
  
===========================  
  
Mort did a lot of thinking in the two weeks between their lunch and the day they'd decided on as kickoff for their collaboration. The first thing he did was call his agent, and suffered through a ration of crap for not having produced a book yet -- until he broached the subject of co-writing his next novel with Nadine Cooper, at which point Kelly forgave him his sins, apparently while she danced around her office with joy. Then he started rummaging thru the accordian folder he kept bits and pieces in -- old newspaper clippings, pictures, scribbled thoughts -- and tried to decide on a few that might have enough potential to build a novel out of.   
  
Rainey knew he badly needed another successful book. It was almost two years since his last novel's release; it had come out not long after the motel incident with Amy and Ted. He'd blown off doing a book tour on it; too depressed. He could finish hammering out the one he'd been working on and get it printed, but he hated the damned thing, and doubted it would do much to enhance his reputation. A collaboration with another, more recently lauded author would add fresh luster to his name. Not only that, he was certain Nadine wasn't going to let any book go out for reading in less than perfect condition.   
  
Shooter seemed to be biding his time. Mort noted fewer pumpkins around the house; and found strange orange leftovers in the fridge, but Nadine didn't mention anything unusual on the occasions he talked to her, and Rainey wasn't about to bring up the subject.   
  
On the big day, Nadine sauntered through the woods to knock on Rainey's door. He blinked. She wore a black silk top hat and silk patchwork vest over a white man's shirt and weathered blue jeans. Probably freezing her butt off, considering the November day had a temp in the high 40's, but she presented the perfect image of the mildly eccentric writer. "Voila!" she said, sweeping the hat off with a grand flourish. "Ready to start the great adventure?"  
  
By mutual agreement, they'd printed their ideas onto standard 8 1/2" by 11" paper and folded each sheet into quarters. That way, they were all identical and neither of them should be able to tell which was whose. Rainey dropped an even dozen wads of paper into the maw of the hat, unending on his coffee table and waiting. Nadine had a manila envelope tucked onto the padded case of her laptop, and contributed a similar handful.   
  
They took turns stirring the papers around, then looked at each other across the table. It should've been a solemn moment, but Nadine was grinning, and Mort felt a desire to laugh wildly. "Ladies first," he said, gesturing to the hat.  
  
Nadine reached over and stuck her hand into the hat up to the wrist, emerging with a single folded sheet of paper which she handed to him. "The envelope, please."   
  
Rainey unfolded it, recognized the headline of the article. "This is one of mine," he said, and passed it back to her.  
  
"No, this is one of mine," she said, frowning. "See, that's my printer cartridge trying to run out of ink."  
  
"We both put the same idea in?" Mort's mind boggled.  
  
"Looks like it." Nadine sounded unconcerned. "I guess the universe is conspiring for us to write this one."   
  
Mort swallowed and strugged to think of something to say that wouldn't sound too paranoid. "What made you pick that article? Have you got any ideas of where you want to go with it?" She did, and they both made notes as they exchanged thoughts.   
  
"Well, we've got an outline here," Nadine said at last, "although, I've got to warn you, I've never had much luck sticking to outlines. When I do, I always hate the results. Like 'Adele's Promise'."   
  
"Really?" Rainey was surprised. "You made it look so easy."   
  
She winced. "If it had been up to me, I'd probably still be writing it," she admitted. "There were so many more stories I wanted to tell, but I had a deadline."   
  
"So revisit it. Hell, Faulkner did it all the time."   
  
"Do you have to be so insufferably right all the time?" she demanded, but there was a smile on her lips. "Yeah, in my dreams I write like Faulkner, but I know on my best day I don't even come close."   
  
Mort nodded. "It's hard trying to live up to your own expectations," he commented, and thinking of Amy, "and even harder when somebody else wants you to live up to theirs."  
  
"Yeah, Leroy never understood it, he'd say, 'You already wrote the damn thing once, why do you have to go back and rewrite it?' "  
  
"Leroy?"  
  
"My husband."  
  
"You're married?" Mort was startled. There was no ring on her left hand, and her house was obviously her space.  
  
"Technically." She curled her lip. "It's been a little hard to serve him with divorce papers, seeing as how he's living the life in Acapulco with 1.2 million dollars of my hard-earned money."  
  
"Holy shit!" Rainey exclaimed, and heard to his horror, Shooter's offer: "Want me to hunt him down and kill him for you?" He focused hard on the room, and slowly felt Shooter's presence recede.   
  
Nadine laughed. "I wouldn't worry about it. He's not gonna be back, and I'm happy with things just the way they are. I don't have to put up with anybody else's shit anymore. If I want to, I can sit on the couch for four hours staring off into space and plan a chapter without having to get up and cook or do laundry or pretend I'm in the mood when I'm not."   
  
This was personal territory; Mort was still skittish on the subject, but he could relate. "And having ideas at the worst possible moments...."   
  
"Oh, yeah!" Nadine's eyes danced. She acted it out "Oh my God! -- Was that good, honey? -- No, I was just thinking -- "  
  
Mort finished in chorus with her: "Well, stop thinking! And there's the other one," he said, smiling. "When you're working, and somebody wants you to leave it and go somewhere or do something right then, and you tell them you've got to get to a certain point, and they say -- "  
  
"Write faster!" They chuckled together. Nadine was pleasant company. It was going to be fun working together.   
  
Rainey hadn't been this relaxed in longer than he wanted to think about. It felt good. Now if only Shooter wouldn't cause problems....   
  
=================================  
  
I can see that scene as clearly as if it was on dvd: Mort's sitting on the couch talking, pull back: there's Shooter, who offers to kill Nadine's ex. Close up on Mort's panicked expression, pull back again and Shooter's gone.... 


	15. 15 A Proper Introduction

(Standard disclaimer still applies. Hope the rating does, too....)   
  
==========================  
  
Writing with Mort Rainey was one of her better ideas, Nadine congratulated herself. Between the two of them they'd knocked out the first three chapters in a little over two weeks, and Chapter Four was coming along nicely. The style was a departure from anything either of them had done before. Funny as hell, Nadine thought with a grin, pecking away at her keyboard, which was sitting on Rainey's desk. Man's got a bent sense of humor, once you get to know him. She stole a glance across the loft at Rainey, who was proofing Chapter Three. Did she really know him, even now?   
  
Small things still nagged at her. Not the half-baked murder accusation -- Rainey might be a little neurotic, but she just didn't see him as a cut-throat killer. No, it was that accent, coming and going, ditto his libido -- there were flashes of that heat that had drawn her the time he'd embraced her, but most of the time...nothing. They were writing partners, that was all. Not that that was a bad thing!   
  
Rainey caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. She smiled and turned back to the screen. The trouble was, she wanted more than just a writing partner. Sometimes she was certain he wanted the same thing, especially when he'd aim those Bambi-brown eyes her way and call her Miss Nadine in that slow drawl. Gawd, it was enough to make a woman take up writing trashy romance novels just to get it out of her system.   
  
Moments like that made her wonder if she was crazy, or if she'd just spent a little too long writing "Gemini Descending", because it was like he was a completely different person. There was Rainey, the preoccupied writer who popped his jaw all the time and had the sex appeal of graham crackers, and there was...that other guy, the one with the dangerous gleam in his eye, the one whose clothes she wanted to tear off so she could do the nasty with him.   
  
(Of course, if I were writing it -- ) Nadine reminded herself that she had written it, that was the point. (You're a writer, not a pshrink. That was fiction. Fiction is your job. This is real life, honey. Are you sure? Oh, shoot, he's just repressed, you're the one who's nuts!) She snuck another peek at him in the old armchair, his laptop across his knees. He wasn't focused on the screen, that was for sure. Then he straightened up, shaking himself like a wet dog and squarely meeting her gaze. He smiled lazily, and for Nadine, every nebulous suspicion coalesed into a rock of truth.   
  
She wasn't with Mort Rainey anymore. This man was a stranger...a very intriguing stranger.   
  
"I think it's time to call it a night, Miss Nadine," he said, southern now, never taking his eyes from hers. Rainey's eye contact was usually fleeting, this stranger's was direct.   
  
"It is getting late," she agreed. It was eleven p.m., they'd been at it since noon. Or rather, she and Rainey had been at it since noon.   
  
He rose gracefully from the chair, moving smoothly; Nadine watched in a trace. Rainey always seemed to be tense, this guy was completely at ease in his skin. Looking down at her, he rested a hand on her shoulder, strong fingers finding a tender spot and kneading it. "How about we hit the hay?" he suggested. "Stay here tonight, we can get an early start in the morning."   
  
"That sounds good to me," Nadine said, her heart pounding. "Just tell me one thing -- who the hell are you?"   
  
The man in Rainey's body laughed. "Why, whatever do you mean, Miss Nadine?" he teased.   
  
Nadine smiled back at him, as if she hadn't been debating the matter endlessly until a moment ago. "How about we cut the crap?" she countered pleasantly. "You're not Mort Rainey, and we both know it."   
  
He nodded slowly. "I was wondering how long it was gonna take you to figure it out. Knew you would. You're a smart lady."   
  
"I've had my suspicions from the start. So, again: who are you?"   
  
"My name's John Shooter, and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."   
  
"What should I call you?"  
  
Shooter grinned at her. "Well, Miss Nadine, I don't think Mr. Rainey would take too kindly to you accidently calling him by my name." She nodded like automatically. "On the other hand, as you so rightly pointed out, I ain't him. I wouldn't care to hear you calling out his name in an intimate moment." Nadine blushed.   
  
"So, what say we compromise. How about you just call me Shoot. You say it often enough that if it slips out, ol' Mort isn't gonna have conniptions." He leaned close, murmuring, "Every time I hear you say shoot, I get hot. Feels like you're talking to me, not him."  
  
"Shoot." She tried it out, maintaining eye contact. "Shoot...." His left hand still resting on her shoulder, Shooter's right hand caught hers and drew her easily upward. Without quite being sure how it happened, Nadine found herself in his arms, this time face-to-face -- and every bit as up close and personal. He kissed her then, thoroughly, and she let herself savor it. He was a terrific kisser. If he did everything that well -- ! His fingers paused with her shirt half-unbuttoned.   
  
"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked quietly. "I don't want you feelin' like you have to say yes. I'm in no hurry." By his smile, he already knew what her answer would be.   
  
"Shoot, I've just been waiting to be asked. And for a proper introduction," she added dryly.   
  
"I'm askin'."   
  
"Shoot, I'd be delighted." Nadine hung on to him for dear life, her head swimming as he kissed her again, maneuvering her up against Rainey's desk until the edge of it bit into the backs of her thighs.   
  
Shooter peeled her out of her clothes easily as a man peeling a banana; discarding the garments and focusing on the treats within. At the same time, she tugged off his sweater and shirt, fumbling with his belt, half-wild with impatience. "Easy there, little lady," he crooned. "It ain't goin' nowhere."   
  
When they were down to bare skin, looking at each other for a long, breathless moment, Shooter tilted his head toward the bedroom. "Let's do this right," he suggested. "Much as I'd like to lay you out over this here desk, I reckon we'd both be more comfortable in a proper bed."   
  
Nadine nodded agreement; she didn't trust her voice right then. Anything that came out was probably gonna sound like a cat in heat, which was about how she felt. His tawny physique surpassed her fondest imaginings, and she was trying not to stare, but....   
  
(Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh! I get to play with that!) She tried to suppress her giggles and failed.   
  
"Somebody's all hot and bothered," Shooter sing-songed, his hand at the small of her back as he led her to the bedroom. "Guess I'm gonna have to take care of that for you, hmm?"   
  
Rainey's bedroom had light-colored wallpaper with an all-over pattern of dark green leaves and a brass bed covered with blankets and quilts. Shooter tumbled her onto the big bed, lying atop her and gazing down, dark brown eyes searching hers intently. "Last chance, Missy."   
  
"Please, Shoot. I want this. I've been wanting this...wanting you."   
  
Shooter smiled, and gave her what she wanted.   
  
===================  
  
Heh, heh heh.   
  
Gee, that was fun to write!  
  
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(And you will notice that I did -NOT- have Shooter say "Easy on the goods, there, darlin' -- " since that would have been glaringly OUT OF CHARACTER!!! Savvy?) 


	16. 16 Shooter's Prize

It's not a long chapter, but it's a fairly intense chapter. (Insert disclaimer here. Still PG-13, honest!)   
  
===============================  
  
Shooter pinned Nadine to the bed, exultant. Finally, he had her where he'd wanted her from the first time he'd set eyes on her, soft and naked beneath him. Her hair spilled across the pillows in a tumble of golden-brown curls and she looked up at him, grey eyes bright with anticipation. It touched him that she wasn't afraid of him, even though she knew he wasn't Rainey.   
  
"Last chance, Missy," he told her. (Last chance to change your mind, and it's goin' fast. Speak now, or -- )  
  
"Please, Shoot. I want this. I've been wanting this...wanting you."   
  
With a triumphant smile, Shooter made his move. Nadine gave a little gasp as he claimed the prize for his patience. He waited, lodged deep, until she relaxed and her hips rocked against him. Then he began, slowly, cautiously, evoking response with controlled motions. (Do her right...do us both right....)  
  
Nadine sighed with pleasure, following his lead, warm and willing. No shy young girl here, Shooter thought with relief. This dance was nothing new to her.   
  
"Shoot...that's just wonderful," she purred. "Just like that...right there...." She was breathing heavily; there was a little notch of concentration between her brows as she yielded herself to his rhythm.   
  
It was a fine, fine thing to hear her tiny moans, to know that he was pleasuring her. He held himself back, carefully orchestrating the tempo of their lovemaking, working to bring her to the heights of passion. Each throaty whimper guided Shooter, showing him the best ways to satisfy her, until Nadine was clinging to him with frantic desire. "Shoot -- ! Shoot -- oh God!"  
  
"Miss Nadine...." he murmured as she regained her breath. "Don't you be fading out on me now. We're get getting started." She smiled blissfully and aimed a kiss that caught his chin.   
  
Now he could be less controlled, and the bedsprings began to squeak in measured beats as Shooter let his body dictate the pace, moving comfortably. (Doing what comes natural. Nothing more natural than this...look at her, she's a wild woman once she gets going.) Excited by her whole-hearted surrender, Shooter rejoiced in her outcries as she first begged, then demanded, more.   
  
The staccato twang of the mattress was a counterpoint to her moans; the springs squealed a high, rapid cadence, Nadine's response a breathy aria. As her voice soared into a crescendo of delight, there was the briefest lapse in synchopation, then it resumed full force. Shooter savored the sound of her name on his lips. It was music to his ears.   
  
His control was fading. The urgency within him drove him on. The desire to pleasure her gave way to his need. Need rode him and he rode her, and the need was merciless, savage, a primitive urge untamed by the trappings of civilization. A gutteral roar rose from his throat as his climax overcame him, possessed him, drained him.  
  
Shooter rolled onto his back, panting. He was exhausted, and the room was beginning to grey around the edges. (This is gonna complicate matters.) "Miss Nadine," he said painfully, "I don't think Mort would handle this too well...and I don't know how much longer I can hold him off."   
  
Nadine gave him a fast kiss on the lips and scooted out of bed, dashing for the door.   
  
Damn, it wasn't right, not being able to hold her for longer, to tell her...the greying shadows were blurring his vision, and Shooter felt himself returning to the twilight that was his other existance.  
  
==============================  
  
Don't worry, Mort's gonna get equal time...eventually.  
  
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	17. 17 Commando

(Nobody ever reads the disclaimers anyway....cut to the chase.)  
  
==============================  
  
For once, he was in his own bed and not on the couch, Rainey thought, blinking. He was naked, lying on top of the rumpled covers. The lights were on, the clock on the nightstand read four past midnight, but he wasn't quite sure of what day it was. The last thing he remembered was.... (Chapter Three. How much do we need to explain here about Bobbie and the milkman? Guess Nadine's gone home for the night, I'll ask her about that in the morning.)   
  
God, he needed a cold drink, his throat was so dry his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Mort rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. (Whoa. Light-headed. Feels like...damn, I think he's been here again. God, I hate it when he does this. It's so icky.) He hauled himself upright. Yesterday's clothes were in a pile by the half-closed door. Nudging them aside with his foot, Mort grabbed his old bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door and shrugged into it.   
  
The loft space and the rooms below were in darkness save for the lamp beside the couch. Halfway down the stairs, heading for the kitchen, Rainey caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and looked more closely. Nadine was stretched out on the sofa, motionless.   
  
Alarm screamed in his head. He bolted down the last few steps and scurried over to the couch. Nadine was lying there, one upflung arm half obscuring her face, the other resting on the back of the couch, afghan pulled up to her chest. (Oh shit, oh shit, she's dead! What am I gonna do? Don't panic, check for a pulse!)   
  
He grabbed her wrist and she started. Mort yelped and let go. He jumped back as she popped into a sitting position, staring at him. "Sorry, I, ahh -- are you okay?"  
  
"I'm just fine. Why wouldn't I be?"   
  
"Uhh...." (Sorry about that, I just wanted to make sure I didn't kill you in my sleep.)  
  
Then Nadine gave a little chuckle and smiled wickedly at him. "So, Mort, tell me -- do you always go commando?" At that point, he realized the bathrobe was hanging open and she was getting an eyeful. Rainey's face got hot.  
  
Securing the robe quickly, he turned away. "I was just coming downstairs for a drink. You looked uncomfortable, I thought you might not be feeling well."  
  
She followed him to the kitchen. "I feel just fine." She leaned against the wall, inspecting him in the glow from the open refrigerator. He swiftly retrieved a chilled can; she shook her head as he held it out to her. "How 'bout you, Rainey? How you feelin'?" There was a note of flirtation in Nadine's voice that scared him. She was a nice person. He liked her. He didn't dare take it farther than that for fear that Shooter would find a reason to hurt her.   
  
"Tired," he said tersely. "Remind me I want to ask you about Chapter Three in the morning."   
  
Mort hurried back upstairs, closing the bedroom door behind him. Oh God, how badly had he messed up tonight? What must she think, with him grabbing her like that, not to mention flashing -- he'd never be able to look her in the eye again!   
  
Rainey shook his head. Nadine was not an option. Even if she was interested in him -- and she might've been looking just because it was flapping in the breeze, for crying out loud! -- there was the not-so-little matter of the insanely jealous homicidal manic who shared his head. He probably shouldn't even be writing with her. (But it's so good. I'd forgotten how much fun writing can be. I can't give that up again.)   
  
For a long time, he remained propped up against the headboard, staring at the green leaves on the wall, trying to reconcile his wants and needs with the realities of his broken life.   
  
=======================  
  
Poor Mort. Doesn't that just tug at your heartstrings? Everybody together now.....Awww! Poor baby!  
  
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	18. 18 Christmas Cheer

Guess whose head we're in today? NOT one of the main characters, surprise, surprise....  
  
=====================  
  
It was the second week in December, and the first snowfall blanketed the hills around Lake Tashmore like a scene from a Currier & Ives print. Out on Lake Drive, a big brown Chrysler had pulled onto the shoulder near the driveway that led to Rainey's cabin. Its occupant sat there, looking through the skeletal, snow-laden trees toward the cabin, only visible from the road at this time of year.   
  
Sheriff Dave Newsome sighed. He really didn't want to do this. He hadn't laid eyes on Mort Rainey since July, when he'd as good as called him a killer and banned him from town...that hadn't begun to satisfy him -- Dave had gone to school with Tom Greenleaf's older brother, and known Tom since he was a snot-nosed kid, and the idea that some summer homeowner who wasn't really one of them had murdered him and gotten away with it -- he shook his head and started the engine.  
  
As the sheriff's car pulled up to the cabin, he saw the second vehicle there. Recognized it. Naturally, if this wasn't bad enough already -- it was that Georgia peach, Nadine Cooper, the one who'd threatened to sue him for bad-mouthing Rainey.   
  
Smoke was curling out of the chimney. Walking up to the door, he could hear Bing Crosby singing about having a white Christmas. Newsome groaned. There was even a wreath on the front door. "Damn. Times like these, I could retire to Florida and not look back." He forced himself to knock on the door. There was a moment that seemed to last an eternity, then the door swung open and Mort Rainey looked back at him.   
  
"Sheriff?" The writer had a wary expression on his face, undoubtedly remembering their most recent encounter.   
  
"Can I come in?"   
  
Rainey thought about it for a moment, then stepped back, holding the door open. "Sure. Come on in."   
  
There was a roaring fire in the hearth, a modest tree awaited decoration in the corner, and a ladder propped up against the loft, where that Cooper woman was hanging a tinsel garland and lights.   
  
"Look who's here," Rainey called up to her.  
  
Newsome didn't miss the expression of distaste that crossed her features. She backed slowly down the ladder to the floor, and joined them near the entrance. "Good afternoon, Sheriff," she said politely. "Something we can do for you?" To Rainey, "Bring out some of those gingerbread cookies and some milk. Unless you'd rather have coffee?"   
  
The sheriff squirmed. Count on a woman to make a sticky situation even stickier. "This is an official visit, ma'am. Maybe we could sit down?"   
  
"Is this the kind of official visit I should be calling a lawyer about?" Rainey asked bluntly. Beside him, Nadine Cooper's face had frozen into a mask of polite fury.   
  
"I don't believe that's going to be necessary just now," said Newsome, glancing toward the living room.   
  
Rainey walked over to the couch and sat down on it like he had a stick up his butt. Newsome ambled over, settled into the armchair at right angles to it. The Cooper woman paced behind the sofa like a caged cat.   
  
"Mr. Rainey, a few weeks ago, at the beginning of deer hunting season, some hunters found an SUV parked out on an isolated lane where it had apparently been for quite some time. There were human remains in the vehicle, and the state forensics lab has identified the body as Tom Greenleaf."   
  
The other man was staring at him, and Cooper stopped in her tracks, also giving him her full attention. "What happened to him?" Rainey asked.   
  
Newsome swallowed. "Tom had a heart condition. There was evidence that he'd had a spell -- he'd dropped his medication -- and the pathology report showed it was natural causes. I'm here to apologize, Mr. Rainey."  
  
Mort Rainey sat there with his mouth hanging open, but Nadine Cooper showed no such inclination. "Natural causes?" she demanded. "Man's been hounded for months, treated like a leper -- what the hell made you suspect him in the first place?"   
  
"We had an anonymous phone call," the sheriff mumbled, wishing he was anywhere but here. "Somebody who said Rainey only turned in a report of being stalked so we wouldn't suspect him of the killings."   
  
"And on that basis you've spent the last six months telling everybody he's a murdering lunatic?"   
  
Rainey had remained silent, looking at the fire. "What about my ex-wife?" he asked suddenly. "Have you tracked her down yet?"  
  
Shaking his head, Newsome rose from the chair. "No, we haven't, but as far as I'm concerned, that's not my jurisdiction. If you should decide you need something from town, Mr. Rainey, you're more than welcome to stop by."   
  
Mort nodded, not stirring from the couch. He looked like he was in shock. The sheriff walked over to the door. Nadine Cooper wrenched it open and stood there glaring at him. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said to her quietly. "I was wrong."  
  
"You're telling the wrong person." He found himself on the other side of the door, and hurried back to his car. Florida was looking better and better.   
  
=========================  
  
OMG ! ! ! -- Didn't expect THAT, did you?!   
  
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And although it didn't fit with the pov, I know what was said after the door closed behind the sheriff.   
  
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"Not his jurisdiction? You know what that means, Rainey?"   
  
"No, what?"  
  
"You can kill anybody you want, as long as they're not local. Kinda gives a whole new meaning to the expression 'tourist season', huh?"   
  
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A record number of reviews for Chapter 17; gee, maybe I should wait 2 days between all my posts. dodges shovel-wielding fans Had a VERY productive weekend, including some stuff I'm gonna have to post later as a separate-but-related story, 'cause it is SO not PG-13. (Doesn't really further the plot, either, so no big deal if it's not in here. Just me, hormonal and channeling Nadine.) 


	19. 19 Something Going Around

Between Christmas and the New Year, Nadine called Rainey one morning to beg off coming over to write. She was coming down with something, she told him, and thought she'd keep her germs to herself. Mort spent his first day alone playing hooky -- well, electronic pinball, actually -- and didn't even open the docs for the book. On the second day, he made a few minor changes (with notes of what and why) and noticed there weren't any lights on at her house that evening. On the afternoon of the third day, New Year's Eve, when he still hadn't heard from her, and there was no answer at her house, not even the machine, he got worried enough to go over there.   
  
As soon as he opened the door with the key she'd given him, he knew something was very wrong. The house was almost as cold as the outdoors; the major difference was that it was out of the wind. Then the smell hit him, and he gagged. There was no sign of her downstairs, not in the main room, with its pine-and-tinsel garlands still ringing the walls, or in her demure bedroom. Rainey climbed the stairs to the loft, his heart thundering. (What if, oh God, what if -- ) There was a rasping cough, and he bounded up the last few steps.   
  
Nadine was curled up on the couch, shaking, and from the smell of things, she'd been there for several days without moving. There was a trashcan nearby, stinking of vomit, and the blankets were equally rank. There was a gallon jug of water with an inch or so of liquid at the bottom, a bottle of generic aspirin, an empty tissue box and an old-fashioned glass thermometer on the coffee table.   
  
Rainey automatically picked up the thermometer and read it. It had registered 103.4 -- no telling when that had been, but from her flushed face and fever-bright eyes, he was willing to bet it was still that bad, if not worse. Her breathing sounded terrible -- probably some kind of pneumonia -- and he tried to think of something that might help. A hot shower? Maybe. And a clean bed. If that didn't help, he'd try hauling her into town in the morning. New Year's Eve was no time to go near a hospital, unless you were bleeding from a major artery.   
  
Mort hurried downstairs to throw the switch on the electric hot water heater, glad he'd remembered that detail before he got her into the bath. There were clean towels. He cased her bedroom quickly -- her bed was already made, and he swiftly found a warm fleece nightgown to change her into afterward. His last act was to crank the thermostat on the climate control, setting it for 80 degrees without a qualm.  
  
Heading back to the loft, he got Nadine peeled out of the soiled bedding and tried to get her down the stairs without breaking both their necks on the staircase. It wasn't easy. She was almost as tall as he was, and not delicately built.   
  
It wasn't until he wrestled her filthy clothes off that she began to struggle in earnest. "No! Leroy, stop!" She sounded fretful, the pitch of someone who's said the same words again and again.   
  
"I'm not Leroy. Come on, Nadine, you need a shower. You'll feel better," Rainey coaxed. He'd have to get in there with her, he realized. She was barely upright. (Well, it's not like she hasn't seen it before, and I don't think she was too impressed. Besides, she's in no condition to make a pass....)   
  
That rationalized, Rainey stripped down to nothing and started the shower. When he reached for Nadine, she snapped. "Leroy!" she screamed, pushing him away so violently that he rebounded against the far wall. "No! How many times do I have to kill you?" Mort froze. He couldn't have heard that right. Surely, what she'd said was, "How many times do I have to TELL you?"   
  
Looking at her, face distorted with rage, eyes shining with fever, Rainey felt a pang of uncertainty. Right now, Nadine appeared more than capable of killing someone. He had his back to the wall, disbelief and horror warring within him as he stared at her.   
  
Another spasm of coughing doubled her up, and Mort had a strange sensation of double vision. "Miss Nadine," he heard himself say. "Now, Miss Nadine -- " He walked over to her without ever intending to move. "Let's get you cleaned up." He put his arms around her and guided her into the shower. It was easily big enough for both of them. He found a net puff and squeezed shower gel onto it.   
  
She'd stopped resisting; apparently Shooter was more convincing than he was. His hands moved gently, cleansing her with the least possible touch. Nadine leaned passively against him, calm now. There was a long surgical scar on her lower abdomen, but what really puzzled him were the other marks, little round dimples on the sides of her ribcage and her inner thighs. What the hell...?  
  
Cigarette burns, Shooter told him, and Rainey fought a wave of nausea. (If that Leroy person did that to her, I don't blame her for -- ) Mort let go the thought like a balloon, and let it drift away.   
  
Soon he had her towelled dry and gotten her warmly clad and tucked into bed with a glass of water and some aspirin. Her temp was down to 101.2, which was a lot less alarming than the earlier reading. She protested when he tried to leave, even though he hadn't planned on going farther than the kitchen, to see if he could scout up some chicken soup.   
  
That was how Mort Rainey found himself welcoming in the new year -- in bed with Nadine Cooper, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept. He hoped whatever she had wasn't too contagious. He didn't need whatever it was that was going around.   
  
========================  
  
Hmm, did she or didn't she? Guess only Leroy knows for sure....  
  
. 


	20. 20 Southern Charm

After this post, there are six more chapters plus the featurette left. Stick around! Big thanks to my faithful reviewers!

This is an unusually long chapter, but I'm sure y'all will manage!  
  
=========================  
  
"You should write the bar fight," Rainey said on a gray January afternoon while they were sitting around his loft brainstorming.  
  
"Me? Why me?"  
  
"You did a great job on the mob scene in 'Adele's Promise'. 'Bernard, unable to withdraw from the tumult, was borne into the fray, at first striking out only to defend himself, but in the end, flailing as indiscriminantly as the rest.' "  
  
"Pretty good for a guy who never read the book. Nope, you're going to write the bar fight. I'd only be imitating myself after that. I'm going to work on the part with Ruby and the gals at the diner."  
  
"Deal," said Rainey cheerfully. The diner scene was going to be one of those chick-flick sections, he could tell. "I got into a couple fights at college keggers, at least there I can fake it. You're welcome to the hen party."  
  
"Why do I have the feeling I just got took?" Nadine asked, a good-natured grin on her face. She was lounging back in her favorite armchair, the one Amy had placed by the secret window.   
  
"Hey, whose point of view do you think I should do it from?"  
  
"Not my problem," she shrugged. "I'm gonna be busy enough gettin' those gals to open up about carryin' on with Walter."   
  
Rainey bared his teeth at her. Since New Year's Eve, he'd felt a lot less self-conscious around Nadine. That...word...the one he didn't want to dwell on, had paradoxically made him less afraid. Mort knew he wasn't going to do anything to provoke her that much, and now he believed that maybe she'd be able to hold her own against Shooter.  
  
That was good. He was continuing to lose time -- sometimes hours in the middle of a work day -- but Nadine never indicated she'd noticed anything odd in his behavior. At the same time, the few communications Shooter aimed toward Mort these days were disturbingly...pleased. Somehow, the thought of Shooter coming onto Nadine scared him more than anything else. She was a shameless flirt, no doubt about that -- but while he had enough self-control to pass on her banter, Shooter might not see the need. God, there were times when he was tempted to tell her everything, just so she'd keep her guard up.   
  
After Sheriff Newsome's visit, she'd been happier than he had. Mort couldn't muster much joy; okay, he hadn't killed Tom. Which only left the deaths of three other people and Chico on his conscience, plus an act of arson. Not that he'd told her that.   
  
"Shoot!" muttered Nadine a few minutes later, climbing out of the chair. "Dropped my pen right down between the arm and the cushion...hey, looky what I found!" Mort turned as she sashayed over to the desk and set his long-missing thesaurus down next to his laptop.  
  
"Oh my God! How in the world did it get there?" Rainey wondered aloud. "I hardly ever sit in that chair." (It's haunted.)  
  
"Really? And how long has this been missing?" Mort froze at the sight of the gold watch she was dangling. He plucked it from her hand and turned it over to look at the engraving on the back: "To Mort With Love, Amy".   
  
"Rainey? What's wrong?"  
  
"That watch should be at the bottom of Tashmore Lake," he said, staring at it.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Mort took a deep breath and told her almost everything. He didn't mention Shooter by name, but he admitted that he'd had a breakdown after his separation from Amy, had been hallucinating wildly for parts of it, and that he'd killed -- or thought he'd killed -- four people. "Now, I'm not sure of anything. They found Tom Greenleaf, and it wasn't in the lake with Karsch -- unless Newsome's baiting some kind of trap for me."   
  
"Hah!" Nadine was scornful. "Man's not that bright. Okay, try this scenario on for size. You subconsciously felt so guilty about wanting to kill your wife and that bozo she was running around with that you tried to frame yourself for murder, complete with an anonymous call to the police."   
  
"It's possible," Rainey said finally. "I tried to talk myself into turning myself in. Maybe I did call the cops." That horrible day was jagged glass in his memory. The frantic trip to the post office, Newsome hovering suspiciously, pacing the cabin wildly, literally talking to himself, Shooter, Amy, the shovel....   
  
"So, I can see why you'd want to kill him and her, but why did you pick the others?"  
  
Rainey thought back to the previous spring. "Somebody at the diner said they hadn't seen Tom in a couple days. I knew he had a heart condition." (I was buying smokes, and that guy from the hardware store mentioned Tom. WAIT. I wasn't smoking; Shooter was buying Pall Malls. I remember that! I have a memory of being Shooter!) He sat there, stunned.  
  
Nadine was thinking hard about something else, not noticing the shock on his face; when she left his side and went clattering down the stairs, Mort rose slowly and followed her. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as she consulted his phone list and picked up the receiver. "What are you doing?" he asked in a panic.  
  
"Listen and learn," Nadine grinned, punching buttons. She tilted the handset away from her ear so he could listen in. The number she'd dialed rang twice, then a brisk female voice answered.  
  
"Karsch Investigations, may I help you?"  
  
"Hello, my name is Nadine Cooper," she purred. "I need to speak to Mr. Karsch, please."  
  
"Is this in reference to an ongoing investigation?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you have a file with us?"  
  
"No. I have a credit card," Nadine said distinctly, "and I'm willing to be billed $150 for fifteen minutes of Mr. Karsch's time." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "If he charges five hundred per diem, that ought to get his attention."  
  
"One moment, please."   
  
During the pause, she and Rainey exchanged glances. "Let's see how long it takes her to pull out the ouija board," murmured Nadine. "Hello? Yes, Visa." She rattled off the information without reaching for her wallet, which earned her a wide-eyed look from the already flustered Mort.   
  
"Ms. Cooper, how can I help you?" Rainey could hear Ken Karsch's rumbling voice clearly two feet away from the receiver. He closed his eyes and began deep breathing exercises. (In through the nose, out through the mouth....)   
  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Karsch. I was given your name by my colleague, Mr. Mort Rainey -- "  
  
"Mort? How is that old son of a gun?"   
  
Nadine shook her head and continued. "I'm also a writer, and Mr. Rainey suggested you as someone I might consult for technical details as to how an investigator might proceed to locate someone who's gone missing."   
  
"For a book? Would I get a 'thank you' in the dedications?" The private detective sounded pleased by the idea.   
  
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Why, of course!" Rainey grinned weakly at the hand gesture she used along with her response.   
  
"Who's missing? What are the circumstances?"  
  
"My hero's...mother. First, her house burned down. She then moved in with a gentleman she'd been seeing, and her son hasn't heard from her since."   
  
"First, I'd try to locate the boyfriend. Does your guy know where he lives?"   
  
Rainey mouthed "Riverdale." "Let's say he knows what city, not the specific address."  
  
"Shouldn't be too difficult to find. Reverse search on the guy's phone number, if you've got one. Tax records for property in his name, that kind of thing. Does the son have any legal status, power of attorney, anything like that?"  
  
"They co-owned the house that burned."   
  
"Insurance records. Find out if she got a settlement check, when and where it was cashed. Finding out the bank might narrow down her location. If your hero knows any of her friends, he might check with them. She and Mr. Wonderful could be out playing bingo every night and he's the only one who doesn't know it. How long has she been missing?"   
  
"Several months."   
  
"You know, I've seen what you're describing -- young lady eloped, her mother on the Island thought she'd been killed, abducted, shit like that -- the kid finally called home for Christmas Day and it turned out she'd eloped with a used car salesman over the Fourth of July weekend and gone off to Ohio with him. Took her six months to get around to calling Momma."   
  
"I don't know how helpful that is," said Nadine. "But I hope I have a few minutes left on my nickel and can call you again if I think of any more complications." She exuded southern charm, and the investigator chuckled.   
  
"I'll make sure you're put through," promised Karsch. "Don't forget that dedication!"   
  
"Fella sounded pretty lively to me," Nadine remarked, hanging up the phone.   
  
"I didn't kill him," Rainey said blankly.   
  
"Glad to hear it." She patted his shoulder. "Never really thought you did."  
  
"I guess I owe you a hundred and fifty bucks."  
  
"Like hell! Who knows, I might be able to do something with it, like write it off as research."   
  
Mort listened, fascinated, as Nadine made several more calls, posing diversely as a legal secretary, an insurance clerk, and a bank representative. Two useful pieces of information emerged from Nadine's chicanary. First, that a settlement check had been awarded to Amy Rainey and deposited in her bank account several weeks after the time Mort believed he'd killed her. Secondly, a call to the Riverdale Fire Marshall's office showed that the fire had been listed as cleared, having been attributed to a burgle-and-burn ring that had been busted recently in that part of the state.   
  
"Has anyone ever told you you're a pathological liar?" Rainey asked her with admiration as she put the phone down.   
  
Nadine smiled. "Shoot. They'd have to catch me at it first."   
  
===============================  
  
God, that girl lies like a rug! So, it looks like Mort didn't kill Greenleaf or Karsch and didn't commit arson...of course, there's still the little matter of Amy and Ted...and Chico, of course.


	21. 21 True Confessions

Standard disclaimer still applies.  
  
Thanks to the usual review crew -- you know who you are. If you just got here, welcome, turn off your cell phones and pagers, pour yourself some sweet tea and settle in as we get closer and closer to The Truth.   
  
==============================  
  
The March evening was cold, but there was a fire blazing in Rainey's fireplace, and Nadine seemed disinclined to leave for the night. Shooter watched her tapping away at something on her laptop, hair shining in the flickering light. He'd been trying to get free for hours; it was more and more difficult to gain control of Rainey. She glanced up from the screen to find him watching her, and raised an eyebrow.   
  
"I just want to remember you this way forever, Miss Nadine," Shooter said regretfully.  
  
Setting the laptop on the end of the coffee table, she joined him on the couch. "What's wrong, Shoot?"  
  
"I don't think I'm gonna be around much longer," he said simply. He'd always had the sensation of watching over Rainey's shoulder as Mort went about his business -- but now what had been shadows were an ever-lengthening twilight.   
  
Nadine pulled him into a hug. "No fooling around!" Shooter said urgently. "He's too close. I just want to spend time with you while I still can."   
  
"Come here," she said, easing his head down to rest on her bosom.   
  
They sat that way for a little while. "How did it end?" Shooter asked suddenly.  
  
"How did what end?"  
  
" 'Gemini Descending' -- how did it end?"  
  
"You reviewed it, Halvoran Press sent me a copy of it."  
  
"No, Missy, that review's all Rainey. I tried to read it, but I just kept...getting lost."  
  
"Lost?"  
  
"In the grey place, in his head. That scares me more than anything, that any time now, I'm gonna go there and never come back out. Never see you again, never work in my garden...." His voice choked off.   
  
Nadine's hands gently rubbed the back of his neck. "Aww, Shoot...I don't think it's gonna be like that."   
  
"But you don't know?"   
  
"All I know is what I read while I was researching...I know the closer y'all get, the more Mort's gonna start remembering your memories."   
  
"That's starting already," Shooter admitted, "though he doesn't always realize it."   
  
"Just because he's getting stronger, doesn't mean he doesn't need your strength, too. You've gotten him through some bad times."  
  
"Gave him a few, too."   
  
She kissed his cheek. "I can't imagine what it's like being where you're at right now. Must be pretty scary for you. But, Shoot, nobody knows tomorrow for sure. You could get hit by lightning, or snakebit or fall down the stairs and break your neck --- there's no guarantees in life. Things are gonna change, we both know that, but I believe that whatever happens with you and Rainey, some part of you is still gonna be here."   
  
Looking into her earnest grey eyes, sinking, Shooter prayed that she was right.   
  
"If you remember anything, remember this, John Shooter: I am never going to forget you. Not ever. I love you, Shoot."   
  
He buried his face against her, holding on as hard as he could, exhausted. "Nadine...Miss Nadine...."  
  
"I love you," she repeated. "I will always love you. I love all of you. Both of you, Shoot -- the man in my arms right now and the one I don't know yet. I love you."   
  
The darkness closed over him then, and he took her parting words with him.   
  
==============================  
  
Five chapters left.... 


	22. 22 Extreme Trust

Standard disclaimer still in effect....  
  
Chronologically, this chapter takes place a couple minutes after the last previous chapter.  
  
==============================  
  
Rainey felt disoriented. He was sleepy and warm and comfortable, but at the same time, a persistant sense of something wrong nagged him. Gradually, he became aware of a hand lightly smoothing his hair. Who --? Lifting his head, he realized that he'd been pillowed and drooling on Nadine's chest.   
  
"Hey," she said softly. They were both fully dressed and she was calm as usual.   
  
"I'm sorry, I must've nodded off...."   
  
"It's okay, Rainey," she soothed him. "You look tired. How 'bout you head up to bed?"   
  
"I can't take the bed and leave you with the couch."  
  
"Room for two?" she suggested. He looked at her for a moment. She didn't seem to be flirting with him; nope, she was yawning like she was actually planning to sleep and nothing else.   
  
"Sure. Okay."   
  
This was different from tending her while she was sick, and Mort blushed as he emerged from the bathroom in plaid flannel pajamas he hadn't worn since his Amy days. Nadine seemed a lot less uptight about the situation than he was. She eeled her way out of her slacks, wearing only the too-long sweatshirt that hung halfway down her thighs. (Nice legs. Pretty nice all around, now that you mention it....)  
  
The sweater rode up as she hung her pants on the back of the bedroom door, and Rainey caught a fleeting glimpse of peach-colored panties with a swirly pattern. He didn't look away. Mort found himself comparing her to Amy; Nadine was a couple inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier, but it was well-distributed...a real hourglass figure...she wasn't as beautiful as Amy, nice-looking, but not gorgeous. (Knock it off, will you? Okay, so she's a she. Don't make an idiot of yourself!)  
  
As they climbed into bed, Nadine leaned over, briefly kissed his cheek. "Good night."  
  
"Good night." Mort kept his arms at his sides with an effort. (Great. Maybe you should bunk downstairs on the couch. Oh hell, either way, it's going to be a long night....)  
  
The silence lasted for two of the longest minutes in the history of the world before Rainey broke. "Nadine?"  
  
"Uh-huh?"  
  
"I wanted to ask you a favor."  
  
"What favor?"  
  
"I've got this manuscript, and I've been working on it for going on ten months now. It's been a bitch to write, and by now, I hate it so much I don't know if I should burn it or if there's a way to save it." (That was really smooth...okay, what was I supposed to ask her? 'Hey Nadine, how about a boink?' I don't think so...there's still the Shooter problem....)  
  
"You want me to look at it?"  
  
"Would you? Our book's coming along, but this thing is really nagging at me." He kept his voice neutral with an effort. The stupid book wasn't nearly as annoying as what was tenting his pajamas right now.   
  
"Sure. If you don't mind me taking a few days away from ours."   
  
"Be honest." (If I were being honest with myself, I'd ask you for a lot more, Nadine Cooper. But I can't take that chance.)  
  
"I will. Get me a red pencil and I'll bleed all over it...." She yawned again. "In the morning."   
  
Rainey lay awake, listening to her even breathing. He'd been thinking of asking her to look at the work-in-progress for a while now, and he'd finally done it. They'd been working together for five months, and Rainey knew Nadine would find what needed fixing if anyone could. The thought of giving her access to something that wasn't part of their mutual contract should've made him nervous after the debacle with Shooter last year, but it didn't. She wasn't going to steal it; that was one thing he didn't have to worry about.   
  
He swallowed. Hell, it probably wasn't even worth stealing, she'd probably tell him to burn the damn thing, and if she did, he would. Happily. There were too many painful memories in those pages, those up-and-down months after his breakdown...maybe she'd read it and see nothing but his craziness. Still, he'd sweated drops of blood to write it; it went against his grain to just pitch that much hard work. If there was any hope for it, he'd give it another shot.   
  
Nadine shifted a little next to him, and her steady breathing resumed. Rainey popped his jaw and tried to distract himself from his own sexual frustration. It wasn't easy, with the memory of waking up with his face in her cleavage clear in his mind. Funny, the last thing he remembered was Nadine sitting in the chair typing...when did she wind up on the couch with him, anyway?   
  
Two people in one bed on a cold night are going to find each other eventually. In the morning, Rainey awoke with Nadine snuggled up against him, warm and trusting.   
  
==============================  
  
Hope we're all having fun...four chapters left! 


	23. 23 Fade InOut

Standard disclaimer still applies.  
  
==============================  
  
Nadine was wiping down her countertops when her partner entered the cottage, a little out of breath. "Hey," she greeted him, without looking up from the chore.  
  
"Hey, yourself, woman!" he returned, wrapping his arms around her waist in a bear hug. He kissed her face, her neck, her hair -- anything and everything within reach.  
  
"Shoot!" Nadine exclaimed with delight, kissing him back. "I've missed you!" Since the evening on Rainey's couch a few weeks ago, he'd made himself so scarce she'd started to fear he was gone completely.  
  
Shooter's warm brown eyes were haunted. "It's so hard to get out," he told her, stroking her hair. "Mort's doin' a pretty good job of taking care of business."   
  
Nadine had suspected as much. After discovering he wasn't really a killer, Rainey had gotten a lot less twitchy. She almost thought he'd been checking her out a time or two, but that could be ego talking.... "Well, there is ONE thing you can take care of," she said with a smile, and kissed him again.  
  
"Miss Nadine," he said solemnly, "I will always do my damnedest to take care of you." Taking her by the hand, he pulled her into the bedroom, where he was by turns tender, ardent and thorough, with Nadine encouraging every moment. Then, without warning, his face contorted in agony, and his whole body went rigid.   
  
Terrified, Nadine was certain he was having a heart attack before her eyes. "I love you so much!" he groaned hoarsely. Then he was still. "Shoot?" Nadine screamed. "Don't you dare die on me!"  
  
He took a deep breath and raised his head, blinking at her. Nadine knew at once what had happened.  
  
"Are you okay?" she asked Mort Rainey.   
  
======================  
  
"Don't you dare die on me!" Mort thought he heard Nadine's voice say. Die? Not unless dying felt an awful lot like making love.  
  
Rainey lifted his head, blinking. Sure enough, it was Nadine's voice he'd heard, and it felt the way it did for the simple reason that they were. She wasn't screaming or crying or trying to fight him off...she looked at him anxiously. "Are you okay?" Concern was plain on her face as well as in the tone of her question.  
  
"Just a little light-headed for a minute," he heard himself answer easily. (She's okay. Don't panic.)  
  
She placed her hand gently against his cheek. "You scared the hell out of me!" she said, her voice shaking. "I thought you were having a heart attack."   
  
"It's okay...." Mort bent to touch his lips to hers. As first kisses went, it certainly got points for follow-through. She reponded with a willingness that amazed him. (She's not afraid...and neither am I...when did that happen?)   
  
Rainey marveled at how easy it was to hold her in his arms, to kiss her, to move with her. Her grey eyes were half-closed, and her mouth a soft arc as she smiled up at him. How long had he been wanting this, needing this, terrified of this? And here he was, and now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. "Nadine," he whispered. "Sweet Nadine."   
  
"Oh, Rainey -- oh -- that's -- ahhh!"   
  
It had been a long, long time since Rainey had been intimate with a woman, but Nadine's breathy little moans reassured him. His confidence increased. Mort couldn't remember when he'd felt such desire, much less acted on it, but apparently he still had the ability to pleasure a woman.   
  
At last they were both sated, lying in each other's arms. Nadine wore the smug expression of a woman who's just had good loving. Mort Rainey ran his fingers through her golden brown tresses and didn't feel the least bit icky.   
  
============================  
  
;-)  
  
. 


	24. 24 Moment of Truth

Standard disclaimer still applies.   
  
==============================  
  
Mort held Nadine close. It was the same way he'd held her on New Year's Eve, but this time they were both conscious. And naked. His brain was drifting in post-coital bliss...thank God he hadn't had to make the first move -- the thought snagged in his head, and he focused on it, frowning. He hadn't made the first move. He had no idea how they'd wound up in bed -- and not knowing the details was going to make him crazy.   
  
How could he ask her, without sounding like a nutcase? The fact that she'd written "Gemini Descending" worked against him; she knew enough to piece things together. (If she hasn't already.) That stopped him in his tracks. How much did she know or suspect? What were the odds she could actually deal with his weirdness? She had her own demons, he'd seen the scars.   
  
"Rainey? How you doin'?"  
  
He hugged her. "Good."  
  
"You're handling this better than I thought you would."   
  
Mort started. "Handling -- ? ....You know -- ?"  
  
"About Shooter?" Nadine nodded, still watching him closely.   
  
His throat double-clutched for a moment. "Shooter? You KNOW about Shooter?"   
  
She smiled wryly. "Come on, Rainey, I really hope you don't think I'm that dumb."  
  
"You're not, but I didn't think you knew -- I mean, you wrote the book -- "   
  
"The book on dumb?" she drawled. "Or maybe you were refering to 'Gemini Descending'?"   
  
"That one," he agreed, tongue-tied and stunned. She knew about Shooter, mentioned him as casually as if he were a mutual acquaintance and not the terrible secret Rainey had harbored for so long.   
  
"Yeah, and I spent quite a while trying to convince myself that that was fiction and couldn't possibly be happening in real life."   
  
Mort had to know. "How long have you known?" He could see her biting her lip at the question, thinking about it.  
  
"Since Chapter Four," she finally answered.  
  
They were well into Chapter Nineteen. "Fifteen chapters!" Rainey exclaimed in shock. It dawned on him then; he finally understood why he'd been drawn to Nadine. He would never have had this conversation with Amy, who could have told him the date of their first coupling, probably to within a few minutes, and included details of what they were wearing and what they'd had for dinner -- but in a million years the former Mrs. Rainey wouldn't remember the occasion the way Nadine had -- because Amy wasn't a writer, and Nadine was.   
  
"Chapter Four?" mused Rainey, and smiled at her. "Where's that on the calendar?"   
  
"Mmmm...I dunno....You remember that night when you came downstairs and flashed me? I barely made it downstairs ahead of you! I was playing possum on your couch, I don't think I'd been lying there more than ten seconds when you came out of your room."   
  
Mort remembered that sleepless night all too well. Had another memory out of left field, them tearing each other's clothes off in the loft. Felt a surge of heat at the thought. "You must've thought I was a total idiot."   
  
Nadine shook her head slowly. "A problem like that doesn't just pop up out of nowhere. I knew you had to be dealing with a lotta heavy stuff. Figured I'd hang in there and sooner or later you'd get to where your head needed to be."   
  
"And Shooter?" Even though he was starting to remember some of the things Shooter had done, Mort didn't take that individual lightly.   
  
"He's still you, Rainey." With gentle fingers, she combed his hair out of his eyes, looking deeply into them. "Don't worry about it." Don't worry? How could he not? He didn't want anything bad to happen to her. Enough bad things already had.  
  
(How many times do I have to -- ?   
  
--- Are you sure that's what she said?   
  
--- I don't know.   
  
--- You know what that bastard did to her. Do you really care, if she did?   
  
--- No, no, I don't care, even if I'll always wonder....)  
  
It was on the tip of Mort's tongue to ask if Shooter had ever hurt her, ever scared her, but he thought of how she'd responded to his attentions. Not frightened of him, concerned for him. Big difference. Remembered, then, how channeling Shooter had calmed Nadine on New Year's Eve when he hadn't been able to. The concern he'd been carrying for months left him; the terrible things he'd feared hadn't happened. He had no more guilty secrets. He wasn't afraid of the past, or the future.   
  
Rainey gazed down at her. Her chin was resting on his chest, and she looked steadily back. Something else tickled at his memory. "Miss Nadine...."   
  
"Gotta work on your accent...." Her lips twitched.   
  
He gave it another try, attempting to lower his voice an octave. "Now, Miss Nadine, don't you be making fun of the way I talk."   
  
Nadine burst out laughing, and he discovered -- or had he already known? -- how ticklish she was. Soon, she was giggling helplessly and begging him to stop. He did, mostly because it was too hard to kiss her while she was squirming.   
  
===============================  
  
Next installment: Wednesday  
  
Final installment: Friday  
  
Coming attractions: A "Pirates of the Carribean" stand-alone featuring a much younger Captain Jack Sparrow and his first run-in with pirates. (Still being beta-ed, will hopefully be up by early next week.)   
  
. 


	25. 25 Catfish Sonata

==============================  
  
"I'll miss you," Nadine said, looking up at Rainey and biting her lip. They were standing beside her Subaru at his place, where she'd stopped on her way out of town.  
  
"Go and sell the shit out of that book and just think -- next time, we'll be going out together."  
  
Nadine wasn't looking forward to the two-week book tour she was embarking on for "Gemini Descending". Usually book tours were a break from routine -- but now that "routine" was Rainey, not Leroy, she didn't need the break as she once had. "Next time!" she said brightly. "I'll spread the word about our work in progress."  
  
"Atta girl!" He planted a kiss on her lips, smiling back at her. In the last few weeks, her relationship with Mort seemed to have given him a new confidence.  
  
Shooter hadn't manifested since Rainey had awakened in her bed. Nadine had mixed feelings; her collaborator seemed to be whole and happy, and she was glad for that. At the same time, she missed Shooter, missed hearing his soft southern voice and his uninhibited lovemaking -- although Rainey was making steady improvement in that area. It was surprising how different they were, even if it was the same body. Mort was shyer, like a dog that's been kicked a few times. Once she got him loosened up, though, he definitely had the right stuff.   
  
"Take good care of yourself," she told him. "Good luck rewriting that beast, we can get back to work on ours when I get back." The manuscript Rainey had asked her to look at had possibilities; she'd given it back with whole chapters "X'ed out", written suggestions to expand on underdeveloped ideas, offered ideas for changes. It was certainly enough to keep him out of trouble for a couple weeks. "You've got my e-mail address, use it!"  
  
"Be safe!" Mort told her with a final kiss as she climbed into the Subaru and waved goodbye.   
  
The smile faded from her face as she drove away. Maybe this was what she needed right now, a chance to get away from him? Them? That was the trouble, she wasn't sure any more. Part of her felt like she was betraying Shoot by being intimate with Rainey, but that was crazy -- they were the same person! Technically, anyway. It was the same body; but the personalities involved were so different. (The same very attractive body...umm, umm!) It felt good to be with Rainey and not have to guard herself. She and Shooter had shared a secret between themselves; now there was no secret. She wasn't even sure there was a Shooter, anymore.

Nadine remembered that last evening with Shoot, thought of how he'd warned her off, and of that final, tumultuous afternoon. He'd known Rainey was changing....had he deliberately made love to her, knowing he wouldn't last? It would be like him, doing what he had to, til the very end. (I wish he'd said something... He did. He said, "I love you so much". What more do you want for last words?)   
  
Maybe Rainey needed time to himself as well. Whatever was going on behind those gentle brown eyes was ultimately his to deal with; there was only so much she could do for him. Whoever Rainey was going to be in the end, whatever compromise he was going to reach with Shooter, he had to work out for himself. "He knows I love him," she murmured to the steering wheel. "Doesn't he?"   
  
But it had been Shooter who'd heard her passionate declaration. She still hadn't found the courage to say it to Rainey, for the simple reason that it was...well, Rainey. They'd had a relationship for months, but not That Kind of relationship. They wrote well together -- hell, this was probably some of the best stuff either of them had ever done; Nadine would've been happy to collaborate with him again (and again, and again!) -- but did she really love him?   
  
She had a little over two weeks to think about it.  
  
==============  
  
Seventeen days later, Nadine pulled into Rainey's driveway with a sense of anticipation that surprised her. Home might be across the cove, but this was where her heart was. She'd barely turned off the engine when Rainey dashed out of the cabin to welcome her. It was Rainey -- wasn't it?   
  
Nadine couldn't quite tell from the way he moved. Shooter's long-legged grace was evident, but as he hopped down the porch steps, he popped his jaw in a way she'd seen Rainey do a hundred times. The big hug he folded her into was as snug as any of Shooter's, but when he said, "God, I've missed you, Nadine!", there was no trace of an accent.   
  
"I missed you, too," she said, and it was true, she had. She'd found herself firing off e-mails at every opportunity, and the little skip her heart gave every time she got a reply answered the big question she'd left with.  
  
He met her eyes, smiled. "I've got a surprise for you," he teased.  
  
"A jar of peach preserves?" she wondered out loud.  
  
Rainey laughed and gave her a warm grin. "Close! It's not animal or mineral."   
  
"Okay...." (Did he catch that reference, or no? Shoot would, Rainey definitely wouldn't.)  
  
She followed him inside and he led her into the kitchen, where a dozen trays of seedlings waited. "Tomatoes," he said proudly. "Three different kinds. What do you think?"  
  
Thinking of Shooter working in the garden brought a lump to her throat. "Homemade spaghetti sauce," she said promptly. "Ketchup. Goulash, chili, stuffed tomatoes. Good thing I like tomatoes, huh?"   
  
"Good thing," he agreed, hugging her. (Shoot IS in there, and I think he's happy....)  
  
"Your last e-mail -- I liked your idea for the scene with Bobbie's dad," she said, briskly changing the subject before she got all teary-eyed. "Is that gonna be in Chapter 22?"  
  
"I hadn't planned that far, I was tweaking Russell's dialogue in the scene with Abigail and I added a few details about Walter and Hubert."  
  
"Okay, let's take a look."  
  
"Slaver driver! You haven't been back ten minutes and you're already cracking the whip. What did your readers say when they heard about our project?"  
  
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Mass hysteria," she said. "If even half the people who said they'd buy it actually do buy it, we're going to be on the bestseller list for a long, long time."   
  
"Great. I'll get us some tea, you go unpack your whip."  
  
Once she got up to the loft, the first thing Nadine did was to check the printer tray. To her surprise, the stack of papers lying there had a title page, not a chapter heading, and bore no relation to their book or his. "Catfish Sonata", she read. Below that, written in black ink were the words, "For Nadine".   
  
"Across the road, the bulldozers were tearing up McGinty's pasture for a strip mall. Gloria could hardly hear her student's finger exercise over the dreadful roar of machinery."  
  
Nadine read on as Gloria's husband appeared, slapped the student because her mother was behind in paying for piano lessons, and drove off in his 4x4, boat in tow, to go fishing. After his departure, Gloria's character was revealed in flashbacks as she spent hours washing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees. Music was in her soul, but she'd given up a prestigeous scholarship to marry a man who didn't appreciate her, much less understand the magnitude of her sacrifice. There was abuse -- Nadine winced at the familiarity. One beating resulted in a miscarriage and an emergency hysterectomy -- Nadine's hand unconsciously found its way to her belly -- and the realization that her students were all the children she'd ever have. She reduced her ambition to teaching, although her husband didn't approve.   
  
When Gloria's husband returned, it was late evening, and raining hard. He was on foot and in a terrible temper. His boat had rammed a stump and sank, his truck wouldn't start, and he'd had to walk four miles home and he by-God wanted his dinner, woman, so cook up these catfish and be quick about it As Gloria cleaned the fish and started to fry them up, he continued to rant. There was no reason for Gloria to spend all day teaching music to a bunch of dumb kids. It wasn't like they needed the money. From now on, she was going to knock off all this artsy-fartsy nonsense and concentrate on being a good wife.  
  
Gloria killed him with one blow from the old cast-iron skillet, and she didn't regret that half so much as having to mop up the mess of fried catfish and brains from her clean kitchen floor. Nadine accepted the glass of iced tea Rainey handed her with a wide-eyed look at him, then returned to the story.  
  
During the raging downpour, Gloria buried her husband at the construction site across the road where they'd soon be pouring concrete. She'd report him as missing on a fishing trip, and with the discovery of the truck and the sunken boat, he'd be presumed dead and her life would carry on, much more peacefully than before.   
  
She turned to the final page.  
  
"The sky was bright blue and the June sun was drying the mud. From the construction site arose the caccophony of a cement mixer. The sound was music to her ears."  
  
A couple inches below the last line of print, another handwritten note. "I told you I'd kill him for you."   
  
The manuscript fell to the floor as Nadine, tears streaking her cheeks, took refuge in Rainey's arms. "That's quite a story," she said, between giggles and sobs. "I thought the skillet was a nice touch."  
  
"Me too." He stroked her hair with a caress she'd missed.  
  
"I love you, Rainey."  
  
His hug grew a little tighter. "I love you, too -- Miss Nadine."   
  
===============================  
  
Friday: The ending is the most important part! Includes Nadine, Mort, the garden, a shovel, and the truth about Amy.   
  
.


	26. 26 Rewrite

.  
(Standard disclaimer is still in effect.) 

Mort and Nadine spent the Saturday before Memorial Day digging up the garden so they could plant the tomatoes. It was a clear day, not too warm, and the calm lake reflected the billowy white clouds overhead. Mort spaded up the plot as Nadine tossed rocks over the low wall surrounding the garden. Near the wall, Rainey could see the squared-off block of granite that marked Chico's grave. He smiled ruefully as he thought of the old dog. He really had been man's best friend...he'd been Mort's only friend during those awful months after the break-up with Amy.

Now that he was regaining his memories of the bad times, he could remember what really happened to Chico -- not without a certain amount of guilt, but neither he nor Shooter had laid a hand on the dog. That was part of the problem; he'd been drunk on his ass when Chico had started to howl and convulse. There might have been something a vet could do, but Mort was in no shape to drive, and he'd had to watch the dog's final agonies.

"I think I'm gonna take your advice." Nadine's voice brought him back from the painful past.

Mort leaned on his shovel and looked over at her. "Which advice would that be?"

"I'm gonna revisit the town of Welton. You said it yourself, Faulkner did it all the time."

"Not saying it's a bad idea, but what brought that on?" Rainey loosened the soil, preparing the ground for the seedlings waiting in the shade of the porch.

"Oh, watching you wrestle with that monster of yours, I guess. It's a big job, but you're giving it your best shot. I never was really happy with 'Adele's Promise', you know?"

"You can't step in the same river twice, they say."

"Maybe not, but I've still got stories to tell."

"That's a good enough reason." They worked in companionable silence. Rainey was wearing the same blue chambray shirt he'd had on the first time she'd met him, unbuttoned to the waistband of his jeans, but today Shooter's hat was hanging on a peg in Nadine's living room and Mort was bare-headed.

The sound of a car coming down the drive made them both glance up. Of course, the driveway was on the far side of the cabin, so they could only look at each other. "The sheriff?" Rainey asked. He knew there was nothing for him to feel guilty about, but months of being under suspicion had taken their toll.

"What for? Naw, just listen...that's no cruiser. Probably some lost tourist."

A few minutes later, a woman walked around to the back of the cabin. Her blonde hair was cut in a dutch bob, and the fuschia suit clinging to her slender body was expensive. (Whatever she's selling, it must pay good. Real estate, maybe?) "Can I help you?" Rainey called to her.

"Mort?" It wasn't until she said his name that he recognized her.

Rainey stared. "Amy? What did you do to your hair? Never mind that, where the hell did you disappear to?"

"What do you mean, where did I disappear to? I was in Europe, Mort. I told you about that the day you signed the divorce papers."

"No, you didn't." Shooter's memories of that day a year ago came back vividly to Mort. "You came over, I signed your damn papers, and you left. You never even came in the house, Amy, you didn't say anything except sign here, here and here. And I did, just to have it all over and done with. Then you left. When I tried to call you later, your phone was disconnected, I never heard from you again -- do you have any idea how -- ?"

"Ted's company had an assignment for him in Belgium. It looks like it's going to be permanent, so I'm over here tying up some loose ends." (Did she just call me a loose end?) Nadine gave a little snort, and Amy seemed to notice her for the first time. "Oh, hi there, I'm Amy Milner, Mort's ex." She seemed to want to head off any more censure from Rainey.

"Nadine Cooper." Nadine offered her hand -- without bothering to wipe off the dirt first, Mort noticed.

"The Nadine Cooper? Really? Mort loves your work."

Rainey put an arm around Nadine's waist. "We're working on a book together," he told Amy. "Nadine lives just across the cove."

"I see." Amy's smile flickered, then she aimed it at Rainey like a weapon. "I've got tons of pictures, and I thought -- " (You thought what, thought you'd come around and tumble me for old times sake while your precious Ted is over in freaking Belgium? I can't believe the hell I put myself through for you. You aren't worth it.)

"You go right ahead, Rainey," Nadine said sweetly. "We can put in the tomatoes tomorrow. I'll just head home and rewrite the cemetary scene." It had taken five days for them to work out that pivotal installment; Nadine's casual declaration yanked Mort's attention from his unexpected visitor, as she had undoubtedly intended it to.

"The hell you will! What do you mean, you're going to rewrite it?"

"Because Russell didn't kill Florence. That lily-livered momma's boy doesn't have it in him."

Rainey clutched the shovel. "What do you mean, he didn't do it? If he didn't do it, who did?"

Nadine smiled. "Walter."

"Are you out of your mind? The milkman?"

"Exactly. He gets all over town, nobody would think twice about seeing him out and about before dawn, his truck is big enough to haul a body in, and remember the kitchen scene with him and Abigail?"

"That takes on a whole new meaning," Rainey said slowly.He was oblivious to Amy standing there, although he would've recognized the glazed expression she got when he engaged in too much shop talk.

"Uh-huh." Nadine was practically purring. "What if it was him that was blackmailing Ruby?"

"But wait -- what about the fire in the toolshed?"

"Red herring. We know Hubert keeps a bottle out there, right? Well, what if he's out there gettin' a nip and knocks over the paint thinner? It's a hot summer day, in a tin shed with the door closed back up, kaboom, spontaneous combustion when the fumes ignite, and of course, Hubert's not going to admit what happened, so he says he saw Bobbie over there."

"Huh...I like it." Mort was nodding. "You're right, the tomatoes can wait."

"Mort? Aren't we -- ?" The stranger he'd been married to was regarding him with perplexity.

"Amy, it's been great seeing you again. Have a nice life. Oh, if you want to show somebody your pictures, why don't you go into town and give Sheriff Dave a look? He asks about you all the time." Nadine giggled in his arms as he steered her up the porch steps. As the screen door banged shut behind them, Rainey kissed her thoroughly until well after the sound of Amy's departing car had faded away. "You are a dangerous woman, Miss Nadine."

"Shoot, you thought I was gonna leave you alone with Euro Barbie?"

He laughed at her barbed comment. "Let's go write down some of these brilliant ideas before they get away."

Nadine smiled back. With the long braid hanging down her back, tattered blue jeans and her "Tierney County Fair 1994" tee shirt, she couldn't have looked less like Amy -- or more beautiful. She wasn't impatient with his ideas, or his need to write. She understood his problems, sometimes better than he did himself. The part of him that had been John Shooter had been so right to bring them together. What would have happened if he hadn't? That was a mystery better left unsolved.

There was no mystery at all about why he loved her, Rainey thought, and kissed her again -- for both of them.

THE END

* * *

This concludes our feature presentation. Please return your seats to the upright position, place all empty Doritos bags and Mountain Dew cans in the recycling bin on your way out. Thank you, have a nice day. 


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